


Songbirds and Stool Pigeons

by WriterChick



Series: The Baelishes [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Conjugal Visits, Courtroom, F/M, Jail, Jealousy Kink, Obsessively Possessive, Organized Crime, modern mob AU, sex drugs and violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2019-07-03 02:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15809643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterChick/pseuds/WriterChick
Summary: For the 12 years following The Fall of the Pride, the Baelishes have ruled the city comfortably. That is, until someone ratted. Discovering that he's not as untouchable as he thought, Petyr faces prison while Sansa hunts down leads in the hopes of freeing her husband.





	1. Sunshine of Your Love

The Bottom Line booked reservations seasons in advance, everyone dying for a bite of their decadent dishes and the prestige that came with being able to say they dined there. Truly important people could offer as little as a month’s notice before bothering to place a call and slip a generous tip for seating. 

The Baelishes had their own table on the balcony overlooking the koi pond that they’d been frequenting for the past couple of months. Sansa loved watching the fish swim and Petyr found the sound of the waterfall the perfect background distortion for private conversations. 

The aroma of sweet and savory hit Sansa’s nostrils as soon as she stepped out of the car, accepting her husband’s hand. His cheek lifted, pulling his smile to the side as he helped her stand. She took her time to allow his eyes a shameless leer at her long legs. 

_ Mm, date night. _

A waving motion in the background got her attention, and she looked up to see Police Commissioner Baratheon. 

_ Ugh, with a side of business. _

Ignoring Stannis (though Sansa was sure he had seen him too), Petyr wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her close. He knew she didn’t appreciate this two birds-one stone approach, and was attempting to make up for it, distracting her. “Do I get to know who it is? Or do I have to guess?”

He was referring to their little game; the one he’d agreed to play tonight before telling her that they had some business. She had thought he wasn’t going to play anymore and she was feeling rather put out about it until now. Granted, she never appreciated his attention being divided, but his willingness to still pander to her was endearing. She kissed the side of his cheek. “You’ll know if you pay attention.”

He wouldn’t be Petyr if he didn’t push for some assurance. “And it’ll be no one of consequence? You’re certain?” His fingers on her hip, teased at the strap of her underwear through her dress. 

“Promise.”

Heaving a martyred sigh, he hid a smile. “The things I endure to give you everything.” 

“Oh stop.” She rolled her eyes. “You know I always take care of you.”

“Mm,” he agreed. Looking less than pleased as he glanced around them, he added, “That you do.”

The discomfort in Stannis’ forced smile was obvious, seen from yards away. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands fidgeting in his pockets. “They wouldn’t seat me until you arrived.” 

“I’d apologize, Stannis, but it takes time to put my face together.” Sansa laughed in greeting. 

“I can attest to that.” Petyr winked. “It’s tragic how late that pretty face makes us.” His eyes dropped to her mouth and he wet his own. “Particularly those lips.” 

“Oh, yes. Well…” Stannis cleared his throat and glanced away.

Luckily, he was saved by Conn, the host. “Ahh, Mr. and Mrs. Baelish,” he greeted while flashing his pearly whites. He was a handsome man--a fact that hadn’t escaped the owner’s notice. He capitalized on it by keeping Conn in the front of the house where everyone could better see him. “So good to see you again.”

“You too, Conn. How are the children?” Sansa asked politely. 

“Growing so fast, my girlfriend wants another,” he replied conversationally as he lead them through the restaurant. 

Sansa chuckled. “Ah, baby fever.”

“Is that your official diagnosis, Dr. Baelish?” Petyr laughed. 

“If I may be so bold, Mr. Baelish,” Conn pulled Sansa’s chair out for her. “I believe Mrs. Baelish may be onto something.” 

Petyr leaned in with a devilish look in his eyes as he lowered his voice, “I wish she was  _ onto something _ .”

“Petyr!” Sansa’s jaw dropped. It was difficult to look scandalized, what with her grinning from ear to ear, but she tried all the same. 

Stannis coughed into the back of his hand and gave a nervous smile. The host barked a loud expected laugh, schmoozing his patrons expertly. Petyr appreciated that about him, saw a bit of his younger self in the man. Taking his seat beside Sansa, Petyr watched Stannis pull his chair out, and he turned to Conn, “After all these years together, I must still tease. You understand.”

“How long have you been together?” Stannis asked, extracting the utensils from his napkin. 

“Nineteen and  _ a half  _ years,” Sansa responded.

“Nearly twenty years,” Stannis pointed out. “I never would have guessed.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Petyr replied. “Women hate to be aged.” 

“Is it just women?” Her eyes sparkled playfully when she tilted her head to look up at him.

Petyr didn’t respond. He could be quite touchy about his advancing age, which she would never understand. He was only fourteen years her senior--one could hardly consider him ancient. Shaking her head at him, she glanced back to Stannis. Both men were already engrossed in conversation. 

Stannis was harmless compared to their other business associates, and he couldn’t be blamed for not knowing the details of their marriage, it wasn’t like it was his to manage. To be fair, the media coverage of the Baelish wedding had been more on the bloodbath that took place at the church, than it was on the bedside elopement that happened out to sea. Sansa touched her thumb to the inside of her wedding ring as she remembered their big day. Long past now, it had been followed by the ups and downs of life shared with another. There was plenty of love and loss, heartache and undying devotion, though there had been much more to celebrate than to mourn. 

Dropping her hand down to Petyr’s lap, she rubbed his thigh. She whispered in his ear so Stannis wouldn’t hear. “Relax. You’re already tense and I haven’t even done anything yet.” 

“Mm,” he replied without looking at her. 

He was always anxious whenever she played with his jealousy. Thankfully, since coming to some agreements in their marriage, it was never too much for him to bear. “I’ve never liked waiting,” he answered and Sansa glanced at their unwelcome dinner guest. 

“I know, I know. That’s what I told them. God’s honest.” Stannis stammered. 

She’d lost the conversation, though could easily guess. Was Petyr’s attention more tipped towards business? Offended by the prospect, Sansa turned a little in her chair. 

“Would the lady like another glass?”

Sansa looked up to see their waiter. He was fair-haired with a small stud earring in his ear--definitely not proper wait staff attire. She made a mental note to ask Conn about the man. “Please,” she answered, leaning back so he could refill her glass. 

“My pleasure.” He grinned at her.

She recognized that particular kind of smile, it being one of opportunity. It said, _ I’m at your service, in any way you’d like me to service you. _ She watched him walk away before she glanced at Petyr to see if he had noticed. If he did, he gave absolutely no indication that he had, and it was rather vexing.

He promised he’d play with her. 

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, she played with the ring on her finger, fidgeting in her seat. Feeling so put out, she decided to interrupt their conversation. “Such a shame Jocelyn couldn’t make it this evening.” 

Stannis was a deer caught in the headlights of a oncoming car. Setting his menu aside, he adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. “Yes, she was quite disappointed herself. I can’t tell you how many plans have been cancelled because one of her clients has gone into crisis.” 

Jocelyn was the grief counselor he’d been shacking up with since his daughter passed away. She’d helped him to heal, and he’d helped her stretch her definition of ethical. It had been been a few years since he left his wife and taken up with the counselor, and things definitely looked serious between them. 

How could they not? She’d been his sole support when Shireen died. Poor dear was quite sickly and required many operations throughout her short life. It was during the last one, that she died on the operating table. The courts found no fault on the part of the hospital, and agreed that sometimes,  _ These things happen _ . 

Sansa had cringed at the publicized verdict, taking issue on a deeper more personal level with such a statement. At the time, Stannis was left with his long-time lover, Melisandre, a detective on the force who lost and found evidence as easy as a turnstile spun. She’d never quite recovered after Sansa had her head shaved--for good reason. Nettling Stannis every second she could, Mel questioned his manhood for not standing up to the Baelishes, and had given him an ultimatum. 

In the past, Petyr and Sansa would have figured him to buckle under it, though since the loss of his child, he found a bit of a spine. Sansa was worried it would get in the way of their work, though Petyr assured her that as long as it only pertained to his personal affairs, it would actually be quite beneficial to them in business. It would keep him from being so distracted all the time. Petyr had always been an excellent judge of character, so Sansa didn’t bother to argue the point. 

In truth, Stannis had become much more tolerable to work with, didn’t snivel anywhere near as much. He stayed on for the money, and quite possibly the fact that he knew nothing else. He was more willing to speak up, though still knew his place and that was a rare quality that the Baelishes rather appreciated. All in all, it had been a profitable partnership, and they were happy to meet him over dinner to discuss the direction of the city from time to time. 

Petyr eyed Sansa as he spoke to Stannis. “It must be hard to share her with so many.” 

“I’m out a lot for work anyway,” he answered. 

Sansa squeezed her husband’s thigh. “See? Fair is fair.”

“Mm.” He was a man of such little words tonight, leaning back as the waiter set their food before them. Sansa didn’t have to wonder where it came from, they always got the same thing at this particular restaurant and the chef had begun to prepare it the moment word got back to the kitchen that the Baelishes arrived. 

Sansa cut into her steak, pleased with the coloring of it. The waiter appeared beside her. “Is it to your liking, Mrs. Baelish?” 

It truly was talent how his expression looked both so tentative and suggestive at the same time. He could do quite well in their industry if Petyr let him live after this evening. Of course, if Petyr saw fit to let him breathe, her pride would be pricked. To have her worth diminished in Petyr’s eyes? No. It wouldn’t do. The man had to go. 

If only Petyr would notice.

Bringing the fork to her mouth, she let the piece of meat melt on her tongue. Sansa took her time retracting it from between her lips, batting her eyelashes at him as she sucked it clean. “Delicious.” 

Her message wasn’t lost in translation and he was only too ready to jump if she so requested. The waiter gave a lascivious smile. “I’ll return shortly, should you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Stannis excused him, completely oblivious. 

A few second passed in silence as they chewed before Stannis took the opportunity to commence his conversation with Petyr. “I’m simply saying that he’s not one to be dismissed so easily.”

“Bywater is not exactly new in his position. He understands how things work in this city,” Petyr reminded him. 

“That’s the issue,” Stannis grumbled.

Sansa pressed her napkin to her lips. “What issue?” 

Petyr speared some vegetables with his fork. “Stannis believes the District Attorney holds some threat.” 

“Jace?” She eyed Stannis skeptically. Bywater’s time in the DA’s office had been underwhelming. While he didn’t take any payoffs, they hadn’t offered him any either. He knew enough not to rock any boats and appeared as neutral as they came. “He’s a pussy cat.” 

Stannis gave a look of exasperation. “To your face.” 

“If you’re leery of him because he’s expressed some distaste for our lifestyle behind closed doors, then you’ll have to harden yourself, Stannis,” Petyr chuckled. “Many honorable men like to pretend we’re deplorable, all while gladly depositing our money in their accounts.” 

“Sadly,” Sansa sighed. “It’s the way of things. Good press is hard to come by.” Hence her many philanthropic endeavours--her parents had taught her that much. 

Shaking his head, Stannis argued, “No. I’m telling you that something’s gotten into him.” He leaned in, speaking in a hushed tone, “He’s prosecuting family members.”

An arm came down over her shoulder, reaching for an empty glass. Her eyes followed it back to the presumptuous waiter. She shot a look to Petyr. 

“None that we haven’t wanted out of the way,” he pointed out, engrossed in both conversation with Stannis and his meal. Sansa drew a deep breath, feeling her blood boil. 

Shifting in her seat, she hoped the subtle movement would garner at least a glance her way. When it didn’t, she defiantly pulled a small scrap of paper from her purse and handed it to the waiter. Having planned ahead, she’d written her cell number down to give to whoever caught her eye. This man with his opportunistic smile and completely unremarkable appearance (having no distinguishing features that might suggest he belonged to any family of importance) fit the bill. Mouthing the words,  _ Call me, _ she pecked a kiss in the air. 

Pocketing the number, his gaze shot between Stannis and Petyr and then back to her. He flashed her a smile and nodded his agreement. 

“Victarion always had a temper,” Petyr dismissed, popping a mint in his mouth. She wondered what they were talking about, before she remembered that it mattered more to him than their game. Was she the only one playing?

Laying her napkin over her plate, she nudged it a couple of inches forward, and intruded upon the conversation. “Like any Greyjoy.” 

Petyr leaned back in his seat, and laid an arm over her lap. “Perhaps this will be a lesson to him. To keep his house in order.” 

He was referring of course to Theon and Asha, the youngest Greyjoys. One had gone completely mental and the other had been busted overseas in a crack den. Victarion and his wife had been in charge of the Greyjoy family affairs, taking in his eldest brother Balon’s two children when he caught a couple stray bullets in the chest and died in the ambulance. Technically, their brother Euron had been next in line, but he’d joined the navy as soon as he was old enough to sign the papers. Word was he was back in town, the honor behind his discharge heavily in question. 

Victarion stepped up to the plate all those years ago, and had been managing the family’s affairs all that time. The Baelishes didn’t mind doing business with him, but didn’t appreciate the Greyjoy’s fair-weather approach to things. Sansa, in particular, took offense to their lack of availability some twelve years prior, when she laid the only friend she’d ever truly had to rest. 

It was supposed to be water under the bridge now, but Sansa forgot nothing and took some secret pleasure in whatever hardship he was enduring. Stannis leaned back, allowing the waiter to take his plate, his face a storm of emotions. It was clear he wanted them to take him more seriously, and Petyr wasn’t. At least not on the surface. 

The way he chewed his mints, the tension in his shoulders, and leg he allowed to cock out to the side, told her that he took Stannis’ words very seriously. And he should. She was. Victarion may not have been as untouchable as the Baelishes, but he was high level enough to escape prosecution in just about anything. To hear his name uttered in the same sentence as D.A. Jace Bywater, was sobering. 

Dinner concluded, though business hadn’t seemed to. Petyr continued to steer his attention more toward Stannis, offering her only his hand as they walked, and a subdued smile as he held the car door open for her. Once in the car himself, his phone was out and his head down. He didn’t bother to show her even the courtesy of superficial conversation, his thumbs tapping away.

At any moment she could have spoken up, asked him what was so interesting. They’d come far enough in their relationship in nearly twenty years that it wouldn’t have been strange to do so. They were playing a game, however. Whether he had given up on it or not, she spitefully refused to. Sansa pulled her phone from her purse, about to send some text messages of her own, when she saw,  _ Hey beautiful, _ from a number she didn’t recognize. Immediately after that message was another that read, _ Maybe we can have some fun together some time.  _

“Who’s that?”

Petyr had a sixth sense for whenever she conversed with another man. Sansa wondered if he would have noticed her looking at her phone if it had been her sister instead of a young waiter anxious to fuck a powerful woman. Seizing the opportunity to get under his skin for ignoring her all night, she shrugged. “No one.” Her thumbs typed,  _ You’re only fun if you’re at least eight inches _ .

The response fired back quickly,  _ Trust me, I qualify.  _

Sansa bit her lip, wondering how true that was. It wasn’t out of interest in the man, but professional curiosity. He looked kind of scrawny in that uniform, and she doubted he would measure up if he were entirely proportional, unless of course if he was cursed with a noodle dick. Though, what did she care? She never intended to suffer him for more than a few flirtatious words...and now texts. 

“Well, someone’s bothering to text you…” Petyr pointed out from his side of the car.

He still hadn’t taken his eyes off his phone and she was losing her patience.  _ Prove it _ , she typed back. “Don’t worry about it, Petyr. Clearly, you’re too busy to be  _ bothered  _ tonight.” 

Looking up, he asked, “What makes you say that?” 

Shooting him a heated glare, Sansa growled, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you’ve been glued to your phone this whole time.” 

Petyr made it a point to let his eyes drop down to the phone in her lap before smirking. “One could say the same for you.” 

So he had noticed. Good. Lifting her chin, she grinned. “I made a new friend.” 

“Did you?” He asked, his brows furrowing. 

On cue, her phone chimed in her hand. A quick glance down had her doing a double take on the dick pic that filled her screen.

“Was that your new friend?” There was a dangerous edge to his voice that tickled Sansa all the way down to her toes. 

“Perhaps.” Her face hurt from smiling. 

His lips thinned. “Let me see your phone.” 

He had taken the surveillance equipment off her phone years ago at her insistence, forcing him to ask. She considered taunting him more, drawing it out simply to be defiant, but then thought that seeing it might be the hard slap needed to keep his attention. With a theatrical huff, she handed it over, watching as he scrolled through the very brief encounter. “What are you doing?” She asked when she noticed him tap the screen a few more times.

“Seeing what other conversations you’ve been having,” he answered nonchalantly. 

He was being nosy. His concern had extended past the dick pic and there was satisfaction to be had from that. After a few more minutes, he handed her the phone back. She thought he would delete the picture in his jealousy, but he hadn’t. Instead, he left everything as was, and returned to his own phone. 

“Who are you texting?” She asked, hating the natural pout to her voice. 

“Varys. I’m having him look into Vic’s situation more. I don’t appreciate him being arrested.” 

All business. 

Most wives would have thanked their lucky stars that their husbands were so wrapped up in work, rather than another woman. Sansa despised the lack of attention regardless of how it was stolen away. They were pulling in the driveway before she could think of something benign to say, and by then it ceased to matter. 

The perfect gentleman, Petyr held her door open for her and walked her into the house, his hand resting comfortably on the small of her back. He pecked a kiss on her shoulder before they opened the door, as he did every date night. It was ritual, his way of saying goodbye to the intimacy shared on the date, knowing they’d be haranged by children soon. Normally, she’d raise her hand and cup the side of his face over her shoulder, her own farewell to their moments. Tonight, however she simply shrugged away and reached to rub the back of her neck, as though there were some itch there that wasn’t. 

If he noticed, he said nothing, just opened the door for her and lead her down the hall. She could hear all the children before she saw them. Arya had left her little herd with Elenei to babysit. Gunar and Durran were able to help here and there to wrangle them, but they were still a lot of work. Arya had once told her that she was going birth a whole gang of little bikers for Gendry Waters, and she’d definitely held to her word, though there was question as to how many were actually his.

Arya loved her children, and was a protective she-wolf, ready to take anyone down that looked at them sideways. That didn’t mean she was particularly nurturing and she often asked Elenei to babysit. Elenei knew better than to decline. Sansa had made sure of that and Petyr often times, slipped her enough cash to make it worth her while.

“How was date night?” Elenei asked above the chaos of children running through their living room. 

Avoiding both her daughter’s soft blue eyes and the question, Sansa tried to hide her disappointment in the night. Durran laughed. “Anyone die?” 

Sansa eyed Petyr, singularly focused on his phone, and sighed. “Sadly, no. It was much more business than pleasure.” 

“Oh.” Gunar swallowed a spoonful of chocolate pudding. “That sucks.” 

Glaring at her husband, who appeared not to hear a word they were saying, Sansa agreed, “Yeah.” 

Petyr’s phone rang and he lifted it to his ear, distracting him further. “I’m listening.”

Pursing her lips, Sansa tossed her clutch on the hall table, and kicked her shoes off. Reaching up to undo her earrings, she huffed as she struggled with one backing. “I need a shower,” she said to no one in particular and escaped down the hall, away from the chaos of children and her husband’s neglect. She grabbed some clothes to put on in the bathroom after her shower thinking that it served Petyr right not to see her naked. Shutting the door a little harder than necessary, she turned the lock for emphasis and started her shower. 

She had barely gotten the water to the right temperature before she saw his outline through the shower door, and felt him behind her. She hadn’t even heard him work the lock. It hadn’t been meant to stop him, so much as to make a point. 

A gust of cool air hit her when the door opened and he stepped inside. Sansa turned away from him, literally giving him a cold shoulder as she shampooed her hair. Throughout the course of their marriage, they’d had plain platonic showers before--whenever they were at odds. 

Petyr reached past her for the soap, lathering it between his palms. “You’re upset.”

_ Now he notices? _ She pouted to herself before saying, “You’re disinterested.”

Petyr rubbed the soapy foam over her back, kneading his thumbs into her her shoulders and neck. “What makes you say that?” 

“We were supposed to be playing a game,” she reminded him, trying not to enjoy the massage as much as she was.  

“Ah, and you think I forgot,” he deduced, working the base of her neck. “That’s why you’ve been so bratty.”

Her jaw dropped. “I’m not bratty!” Hating the high pitch of her voice that suggested guilt, she lowered her tone and looked away. “And you did forget.”

Chuckling, he leaned in to kiss her shoulder. “Locking the door was bratty.” His soapy hands slid to her hips as he sidled up closer to her. “And I most definitely  _ did not _ forget.” 

His skin slid slick against hers. The salt and pepper hair on his chest smoothed in the water, soft on her back--a contrast to the rub of his nipples and the protrusion of the aged scar that trailed the length of him. His hands pressed down on her thighs, pulling her back against his groin, hardening with each slip and slide of their bodies. Petyr’s goatee tickled over her shoulder, forming goosebumps on her arms and puckering her tits. Taking a step forward, he moved her closer to the tile wall, his voice a husky sin in her ear, “Just because I didn’t make a scene, doesn’t mean I didn’t see the way your smile lingered a little longer than necessary at the waiter.” 

He noticed. 

Her knotted pride unfurled as a deep grin crept over her lips, dimpling her cheeks to the point of discomfort. Petyr had been playing his own game, the knowledge of which stoked a fire between her legs. “I was just being polite,” she lied, her voice turning sing-song as she ground her ass against his cock. 

His hands slid up over her belly, softened with time, though not undisciplined. “So concerned with manners,” he remarked, reaching for her chest. 

The light squeeze of his fingers spread wide over each breast enflamed her desire; her breath hitched when his lips tickled along her neck, and his teeth grazed her shoulder. She swallowed, forcing the self-discipline necessary to fight back. “And you, so concerned with work.”

He chuckled and guided her to the wall, pressing her into it. Despite the hot water, the tiles were cool against her body. His leg nudged hers apart, his grip tightening on her hips as he asked, “Would you consider thinking up various tortures to inflict upon the man so eager to attend to my wife-” He paused to breathe through the pleasure of his cock sliding up and down the soapy crack of her ass. “More business or pleasure?” 

One hand dropped down between her legs, his fingers exploring her cunt. Titillated over the possibility of what his fingertips could bring, excitement roiled through her belly. She’d thought over the years that Petyr would become bored with foreplay, having done it all a million times before, though she found he actually enjoyed taking his time with her body all the more. Knowing her inside and out, learning what changed and stayed the same, what new thing or variation on something old made her quake in his arms, pleased him as much now as it had when they’d first gotten together. 

Except of course for times like these. His fingers thrust up inside her and she turned her head to lay her hot cheek against the cool tile, biting her lip to keep from moaning. He was claiming her as he did every time she pulled upon his jealousy. No longer was he sweet and gentle Petyr, attentive husband and devoted father of two. At her encouragement, he was Littlefinger, selfish and entitled. He fingered her because he enjoyed the way she squirmed and squeezed around his digits, her own pleasure in it an afterthought. 

Fuck, yes. 

_ Take me as you will.  _

His other hand left her and she would have looked to see where it went, if she hadn’t been so focused on controlling her voice, refusing to give in to abandon so quickly. A hard press in her hip and a barked order in her ear, “ _ Move, _ ” had her lifting her hips off the wall and further onto his fingers. 

She slapped the tile in surprise when she felt the shower head hit her clit hard, crying out, “ _ Petyr! _ ”

“Like that?” He removed his fingers and held her in place, not letting her escape the spray. 

It was actually uncomfortable, too much pressure all at once. “No, Petyr,” she gasped. “It’s too much.” 

“Shh, shh, shh.” He nuzzled his nose in her wet hair and rest his head over hers. “You know you’ll adjust.” He wasn’t wrong. “And it serves you right for blowing kisses to anyone but me.”

So he saw that too.

Sansa would have enjoyed that fact more if all her sensitive nerve endings weren’t under siege. What had begun as moving to avoid the spray, had turned to moving with it. She reached back, gripping Petyr’s arm as she drove her forehead into the wall. 

“He was young,” Petyr observed, rubbing the head of his dick between her legs, bucking each time the spray caught him too. 

Words wouldn’t come to mind, let alone form on her tongue. There was no answer for the way he forced her pleasure. 

“Is that who you want, Sansa?” 

Lacking the strength to speak, she shook her head no. 

His wrist moved against her hip, and she yelped in surprise when the hard spray flicked her clit. “What was that?” He taunted. “Speak up.” 

It took concentration, but she was able to lift her head and look over her shoulder to spy him fiercely watching her. His brows furrowed, lips pursed, and jaw clenched. If she thought his attention was divided before, she was contented to see it entirely hers now. To answer his question earlier, he’d become all business about his pleasure, unrelenting. “ _ No. _ ”

Ignoring her eyes on him, and her pathetic attempt at speech, he asked, “Are you bored with me?” The water flicked over her again before she could answer. “Is that it? You want yourself a hot young boy-toy?” 

“ _ No _ ,” Sansa moaned, gasping into the wall. 

His wrist turned and the shower head hit her thigh, a temporary reprieve from it’s torment. Again, he nuzzled into her wet scalp, the head of his cock snuggled between her legs to press against her opening. “Tell me you want me.”

She tried to bend her knees, to force him inside her, so desperate to feel him. “I do. I want you.” 

“Only me,” he insisted.

Sansa craned her neck around to catch his lips, kissing him messy before she begged him desperately. “Only you, Petyr. Please.”

“Please, what?” He brought the shower head back. “Beg me for it.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice, the water weakening her knees. She was all too ready to plead for him, her tender flesh stretching and melting around his smooth head. “Please, Petyr. Fuck me.”

He said nothing, no witty remark or cruel provocation, only drove himself hard into her, not stopping until he bottomed out. Her fingers dug into the wall in front of her, as she panted against it. Petyr overwhelmed her, rocking his hips ever so slightly, his erection filling her so completely. His words were gentle, “Come for me.” 

It was too much. 

She’d adjusted to the pressure, but it was still too much, too pointed. There was no way she could come for him, no matter how good he felt inside her. “I can’t,” she cried, pushing back on him. 

He was hard, unwilling to accept her resignation, “Yes, you can.”

“No,” she breathed.

“ _ Sansa _ ,” Petyr’s warning brooked no room for dispute. 

It wasn’t a debate for her either, as she was certain she couldn’t handle this, handle  _ him. _ Her eyes shut tight, wrinkling creases at the sides as she whined, “No, Petyr!”

He closed his eyes too, inhaling sharply through his nostrils before he relented, “Is this what you really want? To just  _ give up _ ?”

The thought of him pulling out of her--pulling away--had her gasping. She didn’t want him to stop, but she couldn’t take the pleasure and whimpered, “ _ No!” _

Petyr smiled triumphantly into her ear. “Me either.” 

She lifted her chin and breathed, “Hold me?” 

Petyr nodded his head against the back of hers, kissing her wet hair. “I’ve got you.” He locked his forearm around her waist, still angling the shower head with his other hand, the stream beating powerfully. His cock, submersed in her, had stalled it’s slow motion at her command to stop, though now slowly insisted on their familiar dance. 

“ _ Bite me _ ,” she panted as she tried fruitlessly to grip the tile wall of their shower. “I need you to.” 

Teeth caught her earlobe, the motion of their joining shifted his grip on the hand-held and she she cried his name through the pleasure that boiled over and coated his cock. Sansa barely had a moment to catch her breath before he let the shower head drop and spun her around, entering her fast and hard again. 

She brought her hands to his chest, listening to the steady slap of him fucking her limp and sated. “That will teach you who you belong to,” he growled. 

Fuck, she loved it when he was possessive. “Mm,” she purred, struggling to catch her breath.

“What was that?” He thrust harder. His hands gripped her hips and thighs, immobilizing her.

“ _ Yes, _ ” she submitted, her voice wavering. 

“Tell me,” he commanded. “Tell me you’re mine.”

Sansa slid her hands up to his shoulders, threading her fingers in his scalp. “I’m yours,” she rasped. 

Lifting one leg higher, he plunged deeper inside her. “Did you like looking at his cock?” 

Shaking her head, she denied it. “No, Petyr.”

He tipped his head forward, slowing his pace just long enough to press his lips to hers. His tongue tasting the inside of her mouth, nurtured the tingle between her legs, and she dropped one hand down between them to rub in time with his thrusts. When he broke their kiss, he glanced down at her fingers playing her seam and chuckled. “Ready to come again?” 

“Almost,” she admitted, her belly tightening. “But I want to with you.”

He said nothing, only kept his steady pace, focusing on what they shared. Sansa leaned back against the tile, her fingers mercilessly pursuing her finish as she watched him stare hungrily back at her. She cupped his cheek with her free hand and promised again, “I’m yours.”

Petyr grunted as his thrusts got deeper, “ _ Yes _ .” And deeper, “ _ You _ .” And even deeper still, “ _ Are _ .” 

The way he took her was so primal, so savage, that it sent her over the edge again. Her body constricted around him, pulsing in untameable waves. Sansa started to close her eyes, drifting away in the current when his fingers dug painfully into her sides. He growled through his teeth, “Look at me!”

Sansa’s eyes opened wide, watching his neck tighten, as his hips crashed into hers, fast and wild. “Petyr--fuck!” His cheeks dimpled proudly at the way she called for him through the torrent of pleasure. Giving into the need, she watched his mind slip away from him. As he teetered on the edge of reason, he let go of everything but his iron grip on her, calling out, “ _ Mine. _ ”

When their hearts calmed and reality returned, he rest his head on her shoulder, turning to place soft kisses on her neck. That was her Petyr--paying homage to her body, appreciating the intimacy she allowed him. He grew only more grateful for it as time went on, never taking anything for granted. 

Sansa ran her fingers through his hair again, holding him to her as she kissed his forehead. If he could appreciate what they had, so could she. After a couple of seconds passed, he reached for the shower head, dangling and spraying the wall. “Spread your legs.” 

He adjusted the spray and brought the water to himself, rinsing their sex away as he waited for her to lift one leg and prop her foot on the shower seat. Rather than give her the hand-held, he took care in rinsing her clean as well, kissing her cheek and shoulder as he did. When they stepped out, there was only the towel Sansa had taken out for herself, so she patted herself dry and handed it to Petyr. “Here, I’ll wear my robe.”

Petyr nodded, drying his arms and chest before wrapping the towel around his waist. “Come here,” he said, padding out of the bathroom. “I want to show you something.” 

“Oh?” She accepted the phone he handed her and gazed down at the picture on it. It was of a dead body laying on a concrete floor. In a waiter’s suit.

Sansa turned to look at Petyr, hoping it wasn’t too good to be true. 

“Look at the timestamp on the picture,” he insisted, wrapping his arms around her.

“It says 9:38PM.” 

Petyr kissed her temple. “Now look at the timestamp on the dick pic he sent you.” 

Sansa tapped the image to read it’s details. “9:16PM.” 

Before she could ask he answered, “They were already enroute. I had guys coming to break his face before we ever left our table.” 

Had he? That was more than a little flattering. All that time she thought he wasn’t paying attention, stuck on his phone. He definitely played her. Grinning proudly, she stared at the dead guy again. “This doesn’t look like a broken face,” she gushed.  

“When I saw he was so bold as to actually contact you--and send you  _ that  _ picture… Well, I couldn’t have that…”

She sighed, “Oh, Petyr!” Dropping their phones on the bed, she spun in his arms and kissed him deeply, letting her lips show him just how much she loved him. 

“Do I know my wife or what?” He chuckled, turning to catch each kiss she planted on him. 

“Do you know what I want right now?” She purred over his lips. 

Petyr smiled, letting one hand slide down to squeeze her ass before he gave it a light tap. “To send me out to the kitchen for a pint of frozen yogurt, that you will only take two bites of before you fall asleep to the eighth episode of our show.”

“Oo, there’s a new episode?” She asked quickly. “Actually, some frozen yogurt sounds perfect right now.”

“Of course it does,” Petyr groaned. “Let me find some pants.”

Sansa hooked her finger in his towel and teased, “I prefer the towel.”

“There are children here,” he reminded her. 

“There are always children here.”

“Not all of them are ours. I’m not willing to let your appetites scar other people’s children,” Petyr joked, pulling on a pair of sweats. 

Sansa perched on the side of the bed and shrugged. “They’re only Arya’s, I’m sure they’ve seen worse.” 

“Sansa.”

“Petyr.”

He smiled. “Don’t fall asleep before I get back.”

“Come back quick.” Sansa couldn’t resist blowing him a kiss. 

“That’s right, those are my kisses,” he reminded her through his dimples. 

The door shut gently behind him and she picked their phones up. “Bye-bye dick pic,” she said to her phone, deleting the image. Turning to Petyr’s phone, she pulled up the image he showed her and sent it to herself. Her phone buzzed on the bed and she unlocked it to reveal his latest gift to her. 

The low murmur of children playing and whining sounded through her door and she chuckled as she saved the image to a special folder she’d created and encrypted. Rickon had disguised it as an mp3 file entitled, _ Sunshine of Your Love.  _ Inside, thirty two images made way for one more.

 

 

 


	2. Bad Moon Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keep your hands clean, had always been his credo. Yet here he was, reliving his youth, blackened fingertips advertising his crimes.

A soft tap preceded the whispered voice through the door. “Uncle Petyr?” 

Petyr blinked the sleep from his eyes, and tried to lift his hand up to rub them, only to be hindered. He looked down to see a tangle of fiery red hair and limbs, naked flesh bared above the sheets down around her hips. Dead to the world, she was completely unresponsive to the small child knocking on their door. 

A smug smile played across his lips.  _ It appears I wore the poor thing out last night--and then again this morning. _ Sansa had snuggled into him, wrapping her arms and legs around him as securely as he had her. She was still breathtaking even after all these years-- _ especially  _ after all these years.

Petyr loathed the idea of waking her. If he could, he’d keep her in bed for the rest of their lives, leaving only from time to time out of necessity before quickly sneaking back to her at every given opportunity.

“Uncle Petyr, I’m hungry,” the voice persisted. 

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, seeking the will to leave the warm body pressed against his. A delicate hand slid down his side and over his thigh. It was natural to shift in bed, so he thought nothing of Sansa’s movement, until he felt her fingers curl around his cock. “You’re awake,” he acknowledged. 

“Mm,” she sighed into him. “And I’ll suck your cock if you ignore her.”  

To prove the point, she nipped his chest, her grip tightening around his semi-erection. Petyr teased, “You would have me ignore a hungry child?”

“I don’t want to face the herd yet,” she admitted, twisting her wrist to further entice. Sansa stroked his cock lazily, moving to occasionally cup and massage his balls. “Come on, Petyr. Make me dirty before my shower.” The blood rush had him seriously considering her words. What was another few minutes? There were plenty of snacks in their home and Arya’s kids had never been shy about raiding the cupboards before. Sansa’s palm slid over his sensitive tip, and he lifted his hips, pressing into the resistance. He shivered at her words in his ear, “I’ll give you  _ messy kisses _ , if you want.”

Breakfast could definitely wait.  

To be fair, Arya kept having children and leaving them at their house--something Petyr never minded unless a blow job was at stake. He was only human, after all. 

On the whole, Petyr enjoyed being surrounded by family and Arya often needed the break. Sansa never seemed to mind one way or the other, their home open to all family. That was, of course, with the exception of the first hours of the day. She’d never been a morning person and motherhood hadn’t changed that fact. Every now and again, Sansa would judge her sister for lacking the same deep maternal instincts, but she never pushed the issue. Arya loved her kids, and she was a good mother to all of them. She also still loved her bar and the bikers that filled it, and could go a few nights a week without little ones running around under foot, especially since she was certain of their safety with Petyr and Sansa. 

Sansa’s lips had landed just below his belly button when he heard, “Can I have chocolate chips in my pancakes?” 

Petyr cursed under his breath, feeling Sansa retreat from him, fingers unfurling. Sansa sighed into her pillow. “I hate Arya.” 

“No, you don’t.” Petyr slowly slid naked off his side of the bed, feeling every inch of it as he left it. He cracked the knuckles of his toes and stretched, willing his erection away. Petyr spent the entire short walk toward his closet trying to convince himself that he didn’t hate his sister in law either. “Be thankful it was Arya’s kid and not one of ours at that age.”

Sansa curled deeper into the sheets, refusing to rise. “Why? Durran would have gotten fed up waiting and taught himself how to make his own breakfast.”

“Which he did.” 

“He did.” Sansa smiled proudly.

Petyr stepped into a pair of sweatpants, pulling them up to rest comfortably on his waist. Normally, he wouldn’t bother with a shirt but breakfast meant bacon and he was tired of his chest and belly getting burnt. To give his daughter some credit, he added, “And if it were Elenei, she would have picked the lock.” 

“Until the day she learned not to,” Sansa reminded him.  

Memory flashed before his eyes of Sansa bent over his lap. Her breasts strained against her blouse and pressed into his thigh, her skirt rucked up over reddened cheeks that itched his palm with each  _ disciplinary _ spank. “You wouldn’t happen to still have those stockings, would you?” 

Sansa threw a pillow at him, which he deftly avoided, chuckling at her as she growled, “Go be the perfect uncle.”

He opened the door on little Pipyr’s fist raised to knock again. Giving her a knowing smile, he asked, “Chocolate chip, you say?”

Blue eyes alight and baby teeth bared in a face-splitting grin, the child was simply too excited to speak, fervently bobbing her head up and down. All the kids carried such a blend of mother and father, that it was sometimes hard to tell, but Petyr was certain Pipyr was Bronn’s. It was in the girl’s eyes; so much more beguiling than her brothers and sisters. That was to say, except for Gunar--there was something in his eyes that Petyr couldn’t place. That kid was an impossible blend of both his fathers, taking after Bronn physically and after Gendry on a deeper level. Where Bronn sold his loyalty to the highest bidder, Gunar even at his young age seemed devoted to the point of detriment to his friends and family--a very Gendry trait.

Petyr crouched down to scoop her up in his arms. His knees cracked and he instantly regretted the motion. “Elenei liked chocolate chip when she was your age too. Before she learned about carbs.” 

“What’s carbs?” She asked. 

“Never you mind.” Petyr tapped her nose with his finger. 

She waited until they were about half way down the hall before she asked, “Can they be dino pancakes?”

Petyr thought of the last time he’d made dinosaur shaped pancakes and wondered if he still had the skills. “What kind of dinosaur?” 

“Brontosaurus!”

Stopping mid-stride, Petyr turned to look at her, raising a brow as he did. “Have you been talking to Auntie San?”

She glanced back over Petyr’s shoulder and then back at him, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. “No. She’s sleeping…”

Petyr opened his mouth to educate the girl when he heard Gunar holler, “Pipyr! Leave Uncle Petyr alone!” He was quick to reach for his younger sister, and ask, “Did she wake you up?” 

Waving him off, Petyr shook his head. “It’s alright.” Not that his balls agreed...

“You sure?” Gunar asked. Though all the children were in Petyr and Sansa’s care--sometimes Elenei’s depending on whether or not they had other engagements, Gunar always assumed responsibility for his younger siblings. 

Durran answered, “Relax. Dad loves little kids.” 

Petyr set Pipyr down on the counter, pointing his finger for her not to move before reaching in the fridge. 

“How come it’s only you and Elenei then?” Gunar asked because he was still too young to know it was rude to ask those sorts of questions.

“If Mum would let him, I bet he’d knock her up again.” Elenei’s voice came from behind the door. 

Petyr stood up, holding a carton of eggs, cheese, milk and butter. “Don’t say ‘knock up,’ it’s crass.”

“Is Mum getting up?” Durran asked. 

“Eventually,” Petyr replied, handing Pipyr the cheese. Her little hands reached in the package and peeled a slice off the top to munch on while he turned the stove on and got a frying pan.

Elenei started loading coffee grounds into the coffee maker. “Probably not for a while. Dad had to make up for a horrible date night.” She turned to wink at them. 

“Eww, gross.” Durran’s face screwed in disgust. 

“Old people bang, it’s the way of life.” Gunar said sagely. 

“ _ Boys _ ,” Petyr warned. 

“What?” They asked in unison. 

Pipyr giggled at them. “You’re in trouble.” 

“Go play.” Elenei shooed them towards the back door. 

Durran’s lips pursed. “We’re not babies. You can’t just tell us to go play.”

“Then stop acting like you are,” she quipped, turning the coffee maker on. 

Petyr cracked an egg into a large mixing bowl. “It’s nice of you to make coffee for your mother.”

“Dad,” she sighed. “We’ve been over this. I drink coffee now.”

“Yes we have been over this,” he agreed. Turning to Pipyr on the counter, he made a grumpy face as he said, “Coffee stunts your growth.”

Pipyr grinned at his theatrics and snuck another piece of cheese. Elenei crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the counter. “You did worse when you were my age.” 

“Which is precisely why you won’t be,” he responded, whisking the batter. 

Pipyr’s face fell as she looked into the bowl. “What’s wrong?” Petyr asked, noting her disappointment. 

Elenei knew instantly and reached in the cupboard. “She’s looking for the chocolate chips.” She handed the bag to Pipyr and mussed her hair, promising, “I got your back.” Never one to back down, Elenei turned back to Petyr. “You know I do worse too, right? Like seriously. What do you think I’m doing at parties?” 

Setting the bowl down, Petyr covered Pipyr’s ears. “Alcohol and  _ clean _ drugs.” Which was actually nowhere near as bad as the things he was doing at her age.

“There are no clean drugs,” Sansa said from the doorway. 

“Precisely!” Elenei agreed. “And he won’t let me drink coffee of all things.”

Keeping his palms over his niece's ears, Petyr clarified, “Saf _ er _ \--we always make sure she’s not getting anything poorly cut.” They had agreed it was important to be realistic about their children, and their natural curiosity. Long ago, they acknowledged that Elenei and Durran would want to experiment. With Sansa so worried that they would end up fighting a lifelong battle for recovery like her brother Bran if their curiosity was repressed, they agreed not to impede their discovery. They would also ensure they were as safe as possible in it, making sure it was only Baelish drugs, tested and approved, pure and with hired men at the ready for protection. 

Not giving her mother a chance to respond, Elenei grabbed an empty mug out of the cupboard and snickered at Sansa. “You’re up. Date night couldn’t have been that bad.”

Sansa flashed her an irritated glance. “Go play.”

Elenei jolted forward an inch, in what was an echo of a flail. Her voice cracked as she exclaimed, “I’m not a child!”

Petyr let go of Pipyr, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head. Her nose wrinkled when his chain accidentally bumped into it, and she reached up to itch it, smiling back. Elenei used to be that cute. Cuter. Now his princess made ugly faces and tried to talk to her mother as more friend than daughter. Naturally, Sansa never took kindly to that, and kept reminding her of her place. They were constantly rubbing each other the wrong way, and it only got worse as Elenei grew. 

“You’re my child,” Sansa pointed out. 

Petyr held the bowl out to Pipyr and waved his fingers for her to pour some chocolate chips into the batter. “Stop pouring that coffee, Elenei.”

Her lip curled in a mixture of disgust and annoyance. “Ugh!” 

“Unless you were pouring it for Mum, of course,” he added, trying to catch Pipyr before she dumped the whole bag in. 

“Cream only, don’t forget.” Sansa grinned. 

Slamming the coffee mug down on the counter, Elenei turned and stormed off. “This is bullshit.”

“Language,” Petyr called out. 

Pipyr shook her head. “It’s okay. Momma says ‘bullshit’ all the time at home.”

“We don’t here,” Sansa explained, wrapping her arms around Petyr’s waist and kissing his shoulder as she did. Petyr closed his eyes and smiled, appreciating her embrace before he remembered the mixing bowl in his hands and the extremely lopsided ratio of chocolate chip to batter. 

“You left your phone in the bedroom,” she said as she tucked it into the pocket of his sweats. 

Hands too full to reach for it, he asked, “Any messages?”

She gave his shoulder a parting kiss before getting creamer from the fridge. “Varys blew up your phone in this morning.”

“Oh?” 

He could hear the spoon stir in the mug behind him. “Yeah, just a lot of ‘call me-call me’s.” 

“Hmm.” It had to be business related for Varys not to leave any sort of meaningful message, not even a coded one. “I’ll have to call him after breakfast then.”

Sansa reached for Pipyr, giving the girl a kiss on the cheek. “Where are all your brothers and sisters? It’s too quiet in here.”

“Durran turned the black lights on in the basement and gave them all glow sticks,” Pipyr replied. 

“And he didn’t give you one?”

Pipyr produced a yellow and pink glow stick from her pocket. “He did. But I was hungry for dino pancakes.”

“Oh. Well, that makes sense,” Sansa said taking a seat at the table, setting her coffee down. She adjusted the belt on her periwinkle robe before unfolding the newspaper. Feigning some interest, she asked, “What kind of dinosaur?” 

Petyr rolled his eyes. “Don’t ask.” 

The paper crinkled, her head craning around it to spy them at the counter. “Why?” 

“Brontosaurus,” Pipyr supplied, oblivious.

“ _ Excellent, _ ” Sansa beamed.

Petyr groaned. “I’m telling you--I’ve  _ been  _ telling you,  _ for years _ \--it’s not a dinosaur.”

Before he could expand on the various scientific evidence (for the umpteenth time) to prove this fact known to everyone but Sansa and anyone blood related to her, there was a loud banging on their front door. Always cautious of unexpected company--unexpected company that had somehow gotten past the front gate--Petyr pulled his phone from his pants. 

Four uniformed police men stood on his front step, brandishing badges to the camera.

“Who is it?” Sansa asked, setting both newspaper and coffee down. He stalled, looking for the words to explain the inexplicable. Cops didn’t show up on the Baelishes doorstep. It just wasn’t done. “Who is it?” She asked again, rising from the table. 

“Po-po’s here!” Gunar charged in through the patio door. “Ow!” 

On his heels, Durran caught him with a hard punch in the arm. “Shut the fuck up.” 

“Mind your tongue,” Petyr ordered, glancing down at Pipyr who was eyeing the pancakes in the pan. 

“The cops?” Sansa asked, walking toward him. Her eyes darted back and forth, the wheels in her brain turning before her shoulders suddenly sagged. “Bran.”

Dammit, Bran. How many chances had they bought him over the years? At least now Petyr knew why Varys had been trying to reach him. Setting his phone on the counter, he caught Sansa up in his arms, kissing her ear as he said, “I’ll tell them he’s not here.” 

She nodded against him before turning to kiss him. He closed his eyes, the tip of her tongue tickling his bottom lip. Not so little as a parting peck, it couldn’t be much more than that either. She whispered, “Thank you,” though her eyes said what her lips didn’t:  _ I love you. _

Her hands on his chest were warm and he hated having to peel them off so that he may tell the authorities to kindly fuck off and search for Bran somewhere else. His brother-in-law had been clean more than not over the years, but whenever he slipped up, the Baelishes refused to take him in. His children, sure. Him, no. 

“The pancakes are burning.” 

Petyr stood staring at Sansa, trying to make sense of the statement that seemed to come from nowhere when smoke filled his nostrils. “Shit!” 

“Jesus!” Sansa exclaimed and scurried over to the counter, scooping up Pipyr to carry on one hip as she slapped at the flames with a dish towel.

“No!” Petyr started to push her out of the way. 

“Put a lid over it!” Gunar hollered from the other side of the counter, flinging open cupboards and drawers to find one. 

Durran came running with a cup of water and Petyr’s arm shot out to catch him. His son struggled confused in his arms--damn, he was getting strong. “Never throw water on a stove.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Grease fire,” Gunar explained, clamping an oversized lid on the frying pan. He gripped the handle of the pan and slid it off to a cold burner. The flames died down almost immediately and he gave a sheepish grin. “Mom burns things a lot.”

The pounding on the door got louder. The camera image on his phone showed antzy police officers barking into the intercom. “Open up! Police!”

Relieved that everyone was fine, Petyr gave Sansa another quick once over to be sure before he left to answer the front door. Growing more and more annoyed with Bran with each loud thud, he motioned for Brune to stand down. He had his gun in hand, held down by his side as he came around the corner, his glance flashing between Petyr and the door. This wasn’t the wild west; there would be no shootouts or standoffs occuring in his home. Especially since he knew they would leave once they knew Bran was nowhere to be found. 

Brune moved to the side, awaiting Petyr’s signal. There wouldn’t be one. As irritated as Petyr was with Bran, he was equally as much so with Stannis. The man blathered on the night before about his inability to control the law in this city, and four uniformed officers banging on Petyr’s door was definitely proof of that. 

Sliding the locks over and turning the knob, Petyr was greeted with much more than the four faces that had been on camera. Five cop cars parked in his drive, their lights flashing brightly, sirens sounding. Heels clicked on the brick steps behind the officers, cheap box dyed hair (something akin to Bozo the Clown, though no doubt was named something like  _ Red Alert _ , or  _ Cupid’s Heart _ . Jesus, knowing Mel, it was probably called  _ Vampire Blood _ ) in a haphazard pixie cut bobbed into view. Lipstick stuck on coffee stained teeth, visible cavities eating dark holes at the corners. Detective Melisandre had not aged well since Stannis had left her, leathered from the fake’n’bakes she regularly fell asleep in, her cheeks forever rosed with the stain of alcoholism. She rasped through her smoker’s throat, “Petyr Baelish, you are under arrest for the murder of Illyrio Mopatis.” 

“You’re joking,” he said, because that was the only suitable answer. 

She had to be joking. There was no other explanation. For one, no one dared arrest him of all people. For two, Stannis said Victarion Greyjoy had already been arrested for that exact murder. What was the meaning of this?

Mel’s lips curled in a sick grin. “Not even a little.”

Startled by the touch of a hand sliding into his grip, he looked over to see Sansa standing beside him. Brune nodded his head off to the side behind the door and Petyr gave a slight shake of his head to tell him not to move. 

“On what grounds?” Sansa’s inquiry brought him back to the detective on his step. 

“That’s not how this works.” Mel laughed. “Ever been arrested, deary? Or has Baelish always protected you from that?” 

Sansa’s jaw twitched, her teeth clenching. 

“We let the lawyers make their cases,” Mel explained, sure to inject condescension in her inflection. “I’m here to bring your husband in, not give a detailed account of just how royally he fucked up.” 

Petyr glanced around the small crowd of lawmen at his door, searching. “Where’s Stannis?”

The deepening of her maniacal grin was answer enough. For whatever reason, Stannis wasn’t there, and wouldn’t be arriving. Was he finally biting the hand that fed him? Doubtful. He’d had plenty of opportunity after Shireen died. Which begged the question, was he even aware his bitch had come salivating at their door? He clearly had a sense that something was amiss or he wouldn’t have tried to warn them about Vic the night before. No. Stannis was still loyal, still useful. 

Mel leaned in, her stale breath stinking a cloud in front of him. “He can’t save you now.”

Sansa’s hand squeezed his. As if he was someone who needed saving. Melisandre was a dead woman walking for this. She straightened and motioned for the officers beside her to step forward. Reaching for a pair of handcuffs they averted their gaze, clearly to ashamed and frightened to meet his eye. Mel called out, “You have the right to remain silent.”

“Mum? Dad? What’s going on?” Durran appeared behind Sansa, craning his neck to see the officers outside. 

“Put your cuffs away,” Petyr growled. “My kid’s here.”

The officer to his left said nothing, but the one to his right whispered, “I’m sorry, Sir. I don’t have a choice.” 

Sansa’s voice turned steely as she warned, “You always have a choice.”

Camera flashes blinded him. Squinting his eyes against the bright light, he eyed all that had gathered. Like vultures, the media hadn’t been far behind the police.  

“Anything you say can and will be used against you.”

“Guilty until proven innocent, huh?” Gunar groused from around Petyr. “That’s fucked!” 

“Gunar,” Petyr warned. How did that look? A twelve year old boy cursing out the cops. He could see the headlines now:  _ Baelish family not so wholesome behind the scenes. _ The image escaped him as cold metal wrapped around his wrists, clicking into place. He glanced over to Sansa, but she wasn’t there. His eyes darted all around him. Where was she? When had she let go of him?

Strong hands wrapped around his biceps, escorting him down his steps. Mel followed, continuing her speech. “You have the right to an attorney.”

“No!” Durran ran down the front steps and lept on the cop nearest him, tackling him down to the ground. His tiny fists pounded down on the officer, and though he was only twelve, the mixture of both surprise and puberty allowed him to land some surprisingly hard hits. 

“Durran, no!” Petyr called out to him. “Stop.” This was not how the Baelishes conducted themselves. 

Officers ran to pry his son off the guy, when Gunar called off to the side, “Hey piggy-piggy! Go eat some fucking donuts!” His taunting distracted the man long enough for him to jump him. Durran kept wrestling in the background to pulverize the man beneath him and fend off the men above him trying to get a grip on him.

Ignoring the chaos, Mel snickered. “If you can not afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

A loud crack sounded through the air and Petyr struggled against his bounds to look over his shoulder. Gunar had pulled the maglight off the officer he tackled and was beating him in the face with it, landing every other hit on the brick walkway. Fuck. If Petyr thought profanity out of the mouths of babes tarnished their image, this display blackened it.

“ENOUGH!” Sansa shouted from their top step. 

Everything stopped. Silence spread throughout the crowd as they gazed up at her. She stood strong and proud, her satin robe cinched tightly around her waist, covering what was necessary and accenting everything else. There was a furious glow about her that vowed violence to any who neared. 

Petyr couldn’t bring himself to care where she’d been, only that she was there now, her bare feet planted firmly beneath her, sculpted legs holding her up against the weight of their sudden adversity. Long tendrils of hair ran over her shoulders and stopped at her elbows, as much a part of her armor as the deep glower she disarmed and devastated with. 

Her order was hard, and uncompromising. “Inside, now.” 

There was no wondering who she was talking to and neither boy dared argue. Both Durran and Gunar rose from their victims, swiping at the blood on their faces with the back of their hands and arms. By the looks of it, Durran had a broken nose and Gunar had a gash on the left side of his cheek. It was wrong to feel proud of what they would do for him, but Petyr’s heart swelled in his chest, regardless. 

“Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them to you?” Mel asked, her hand coming up to catch a stray strand of hair that stuck to her garish lipstick. It slid across her cheek, streaking a thin magenta vein from her lip. When he didn’t answer right away, she repeated her question, “Do you?” 

The sudden wail of a child stole Petyr’s attention away from the vile detective. Little Pipyr stood in the doorway, tears rolling down her cheeks. Elenei stepped forward, scooping the child up and pressing her face into her neck to quiet her. Silent tears escaped his daughter as she stared back at the crowd in confusion. Young Bodhi barrelled past Elenei, only to be caught by Sansa and hugged to her side. He was a couple years older than Pipyr and an exact carbon copy of Gendry, built like a tank and willing to fight any kid on the playground that made his little sister cry. “But, Uncle Petyr…” He plead to Sansa. 

Seething over the dischord one detective with an ax to grind created, Petyr glared at Mel. “Anything I say can and will be used against me.” 

“Excellent. Time to see the missus.” She turned on her heel and charged back up the steps before he could respond. It was probably best that way, knowing she would twist anything to her advantage if he’d been given the opportunity to talk. 

The look Sansa leveled her with was downright murderous. The officers that had escorted him to the cruiser, placed their hand on his head to lower him into the car. Despite every atom in his body urging him to protest--to fight--he forced himself to remain calm. The last words he heard from his wife were, “Not without a warrant.”

The door slammed shut and Petyr stared through the glass, his mind racing in a million different directions. A motorcycle revved and he glanced out the back window to see Arya weaving around the parked cars, riding right up to the front step, hopping from her bike and leaving it to land in the grass. She was in front of her son in seconds, spitting mad and barking, “Back the fuck up! Touch one hair on my kid’s head--you snaggle-tooth cunt! And you’ll be pricing dentures!” 

One of the kids must have called her from inside. Good. At least Sansa had Arya now. Both women blocked the door, refusing to let Mel by. The officers loaded into the front seat, eyeing him through the rearview mirror before they put the car in reverse. Petyr watched his wife through the window, saw from yards away the way her jaw tightened when Mel pulled a piece of paper from her blazer and unfolded it, holding it up in front of her. 

The warrant. 

Shit. 

Petyr had begun to catalogue the many things they might find when the car stopped suddenly, bashing his forehead on the cage in front of him. Jon had pulled in behind them, put his car in park and jumped out. He came around to Petyr’s door and tried futilely to open it. His eyes were wide, his lips pursed as he jiggled the handle.

“Tell your friend to knock it off and move his car,” the officer ordered. 

Petyr shook his head through the window, willing Jon to stop. He only fought the door harder. Frustrated at the lack of progress, his hand reached under his shirt for his gun and Petyr screamed, “NO!” 

Startled by the force behind the command, Jon looked up. His hands rose to tell him that he was trying to get him out. That they could take them. The cops had the numbers but the Baelishes had the skill. The Reeds could help them make it all go away. 

It was tempting and lucky that the officers didn’t understand ASL. Unable to respond in kind, Petyr spoke through the glass. “There are children present.” He glanced back through the metal grate, careful of his words. “I trust the legal system, and will be cooperative throughout this process.”

Jon staggered back a step, shocked by Petyr’s compliance. He swallowed and then nodded, turning back towards his vehicle. He moved out of their way and the officers were quick to pull out of the drive, not wanting to chance another hold up. They had just gotten on the road when he spied Stannis flying past, squealing his tires as he pulled into Petyr’s private estate. 

It’s about time. 

As the cruiser drove on, something hit him. Stannis hadn’t been in his car alone. His passenger seat had been filled with a portly bald man. Varys. Petyr smiled to himself in the backseat, realizing that when his old friend was unable to reach him, he had gotten Stannis. It was up to the police commissioner to get his bitch under control and put an end to her search and seizure of Petyr’s home. 

The ride to the station was quiet, fraught with tension. Neither man wanted to look at him, and Petyr couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge the world around him, anxious to know what was going on in his own home. Any other man might have been nervous about being in cuffs and marched into the police station, but it was a walk he’d taken before. Granted, he had been much younger then, caught for petty larceny (mostly), still cocky on the promise of a clean record once he’d reached adulthood. 

Things were different now. He was a man in his fifties, with a wife and children to think about. Things didn’t disappear as easily as they did when he was on his own relying on the slight of his own hands.  _ Keep your hands clean _ , had always been his credo. Yet here he was, reliving his youth, blackened fingertips advertising his crimes. A million images flashed before his eyes as he watched his fingers smudge into the ink pad and roll over the paper, stamping his unique signature in each indicated box. 

They were the memories of a life of crime, all the dirty deeds he’d covered up. The first time he jimmied a car door open, delivered a package, wiped blood from his blade, put a price on pussy, slid money into another account… 

Petyr closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, abhorring the grimey feeling of dirty fingers. If he remembered correctly, the ink would stain under his fingernails--disgusting. Scoffing over the fact that the station was still using ink and paper after all these years, Petyr decided to give Stannis a piece of his mind on the issue later. The man had always made it sound as though it was difficult to lose evidence, when clearly such a low-tech system allowed plenty of room for (rather convenient) error. 

Petyr schooled his face and stared straight ahead as they walked him to a holding cell. The whole station was witness to his behavior and he refused to offer them anything defamatory to report. He would play their game for as long as necessary, and soon enough he would home again, back in the arms of his family. Varys and Stannis had arrived on the scene to disband the lynch mob, in a few hours time they’d be releasing him and it would all be nothing more than a memory. 

They uncuffed him when they closed the door and he made a point to rub his wrists, if for no other reason than to act as though he couldn’t have slipped his cuffs at any point in time. It was best to keep that handy tidbit of information to himself for whenever he might need it. He sat on the bench provided and rest his back against the concrete wall behind him. In the past, he’d been in a holding cell with other miscreants, though this time he was segregated. Perhaps it was because he was who he was, though it may also have been because they were charging him with murder. 

Funny that one murder could impact him so. He’d killed countless men over the years and ordered the deaths of so many more. The idea that just one life was enough to raise such a ruckus, was absurd, especially since the man hadn’t even ranked highly. Not to mention, Vic had already taken the fall for Illyrio. From his current place behind bars, he thought that should help his case. 

Heels clicked down the hall accompanied by a blaze of that unnatural red. “Where is it?” 

Petyr said nothing, only stared back into Detective Melisandre’s filmy eyes. The woman could do with a few less drinks and cigarettes a day.

“Your phone,” she barked, her arms crossed, impatiently. “Everyone carries their phone on them. It didn’t get picked up in booking and it wasn’t in your house.”

Petyr swallowed, his stomach doing a little excited jump. His phone had disappeared--of course. That’s where Sansa was, disposing of the evidence. He’d always been careful with his phone, coding it and never using real names for contacts. Each instruction texted was worded to only make sense to the receiver. 

The photo gallery on his phone was another story… There were hundreds of pictures on there, family snapshots, cute pics of the kids and his nieces and nephews. There were also plenty of naked selfies that Sansa had sent him, and images of himself that she’d requested he send her. The officer in booking was fortunate that he hadn’t had to catalogue Petyr’s phone. If he had laid eyes on the intimate photos the Baelishes shared, he’d quickly lose those eyes. 

Mel smirked through the bars. “You know what, Baelish? Ditching your phone only makes you look more guilty.”

Petyr sighed, keeping his witty responses to himself. 

She started to turn away, but stopped herself to add, “I wonder what’s on it. Must be something very incriminating.” 

It was then that it hit him: the body from the night before. The waiter. Sansa hadn’t been protecting their modesty, she really had been disposing of evidence. Maybe not for the murder of Illyrio Mopatis, but for murder nonetheless. 

Petyr smiled broadly, his hand coming up to rub at his chest, paying close attention to the area over his heart. God, he loved that woman. 

“Oh, you find that amusing?” Mel interrupted his thoughts. “How about capital punishment? Is that funny to you too?” She growled before storming out, each foot step a hard hateful crash against concrete. 

Were he anyone else, he might have been unnerved by that. He was Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish, however, and he had connections. He would be out of there in no time. 

  
  



	3. Hold On, I'm Comin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa listened to the beat of her own heart pounding between her ears. It had all happened so fast, and she was caught up in the undertow.

“Get out.”

It had been Sansa’s sentiment, but Stannis’ voice that dismissed Mel. The bitter shrew made a show of taking her black nitrile exam gloves off, her decaying smile boasting, “What’s the matter, Stanny? Knowing your beloved Baelishes aren’t untouchable got you feeling the pressure?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re on about,” he denied, walking her toward the door. Stannis wasn’t a bulky man, neither was he small by any means. In the years after the demise of his family, he only seemed to grow, his posture straightening and his head lifting.

She leaned in to whisper something in his ear that Sansa couldn’t hear. What secrets passed between them? Petyr had always taught her that secrets could mean life or death. She didn’t have to wonder long, Stannis’ reaction was explanatory enough. “You’re disgusting.”

Not life or death this time--just useless.

Licking her magenta-caked lips, Mel teased, “You used to love that about me.”

“I _tolerated_ that about you.” He opened the door and took a step forward, nudging her through it. “As it happens, that’s not something I have to do anymore.”

Mel took a few steps and then turned back, taking no care for the people that surrounded them and the devastation her very presence caused. She tilted her head curiously as she asked, “What does your head-shrinker girlfriend have to say about your peculiar tastes? Or are you forced to keep it vanilla?”

Any other time, Sansa might have enjoyed this display, settling into her front row seat. It was all so trivial now. Everything was. Sansa rubbed her hands together, trying to steady her trembling fingers as she glanced over to Varys, silently seeking a lifeline.

Stannis leveled the crooked detective with a look that could peel paint. “If you’re asking if I feel ashamed of myself after, the answer is: not since you.”

“Could you perhaps finish this another time?” Varys rather sternly interrupted.

Both Mel and Stannis turned to look at him, apparently taken off guard by the suggestion that their behavior was inappropriate. Mel didn’t care much, putting a hand on her hip and smirking. Stannis on the other hand, accepted the feedback gracefully. “Right.” He turned to Mel. “I believe I was telling you to leave.”

“No worries. I’ll be back soon enough.” She shrugged and shot a glance at Sansa and Arya. “To pick up your boys.”

Sansa stiffened, every muscle in her body flexing as she prepared to fly at her. She’d tear her to shreds if she dared lay one hand on Durran. That vile bitch may have ripped Petyr from her, but over Sansa’s dead body would she allow that wart-infested cunt to take her son, too. Her fingers curled to claws at her sides.

“The fuck you will!” Arya spat.

“No one will press charges,” Stannis assured them, giving them a tired look as he shook his head.

“They’d be well within their rights. Those boys did a number on them.” Mel’s smile widened as she added, “With plenty of witnesses around.”

An abundance of witnesses was the only thing keeping Sansa from shredding her disgusting face off. Witnesses and Petyr. What would become of him if Sansa lost her temper? What would become of their family?

Sansa looked over at Durran and Gunar, sitting side by side slumped on the couch, holding bags of ice and frozen peas to their faces and fists. One would think they were too big for time outs, but that’s just exactly what they were in together. Just as when they were younger, whenever one boy was punished, the other generally did something to join him so the sentence was never served alone. The idea that her baby would be placed in some sort of juvenile detention for assaulting a police officer gripped Sansa’s guts and she shot Varys a look.

Understanding, Varys spoke, “The children were upset and in a panicked state. Surely the officers and their families can overlook the impulsivity of children. All medical bills and two weeks vacation for both officers will be paid, courtesy of the Baelishes.”

Mel blinked a couple of times, scoffing at the offer. “You people think you’re gods, don’t you? Rules don’t apply.”

Sansa lifted her chin, rallying her composure at Varys’ cue. “I think it’s important for parents to take responsibility for their children. It’s only right that we pay reparations.” She forced herself not to hesitate as she added, “If they still feel the need to press charges, they are welcome to.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Stannis insisted, giving Mel a warning glare.

She gave him a wink as she stepped back a couple of steps, retreating. He waited until she had turned to walk further down the path before he shut the door. Eyeing the small Stark-Baelish crowd that had gathered, it was as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. Sansa studied him closely as she asked, “Where were you?”

Stannis rubbed his hands together before letting them come to rest at either side of him. Did he too tremble at the events of the day? Sansa supposed it was right that he did. He hadn’t lost his lover, or have his child threatened, but his entire position had been scrambled and he was left in the dark answering to his lessers. There was a strange comfort in knowing others suffered as well. It didn’t bring Petyr back, but perhaps it would motivate.

“Jocelyn and I were getting a couple’s massage this morning. I assume that’s why they made their move now. They waited until I was indisposed.”

“Who’s _they_?” Arya asked, little Pipyr on her hip, burying her face in her shoulder. She was still of an age to miss her mother after only a night away. Sansa remembered when the same could be said for both of her children, now too grown to miss being tucked in.

She shook the thought from her head, cursing her distracted state. “D.A. Bywater,” she answered, pieces of the discussion from the night before coming to mind. She felt so ignorant now, not heeding Stannis’ warning.

A hand squeezed her shoulder, and she didn’t need to look up, to know it was Jon. She touched her fingers to the back of his hand, letting him know how she appreciated his support.

Arya handed a box of dry cereal to her eldest daughter, Nymeria and shifted Pipyr higher on her hip. “And what? Police Commissioner doesn’t trump D.A.?”

Stannis gave a wry smile. “Not quite.”

Sansa would have smacked the smirk off his face if it were genuine. Happiness of any kind would be reserved for when her husband was returned to her. Biting back the urge to growl the obvious, _Then what good are you to me_ question, she asked, “What does he want?”

Stannis rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “To end crime.”

“I find your sense of humor lacking, commissioner,” Varys warned.

Where Varys thought he was being obtuse, Sansa remembered enough to know he was serious. That was hardly helpful, however. “I meant to ask, what will he accept? Money? A hit?”

“It’s not nice to hit people,” Deidre, Arya’s second daughter, pointed out as she grabbed the box of cereal from Nymeria and jammed her fist down it.

“That’s not the kind of hit she was talking about,” Arya snapped quickly, letting Pipyr down.

As soon as her little feet touched the floor, she scampered over to Sansa and hopped up on her lap. “What kind did ya mean?”

Bodhi punched Dee in the arm, making her drop the box of cereal. “Hey!” She screamed as she crouched down to scoop up a million dry cereal bits.

Not caring a lick for her inconvenience, Bodhi chastised, “See what you did? Now you got her talking about hits.”

“I was just sayin’!” Dee turned on him, raising her own fist to retaliate. “It’s not my fault she listens in on everything like a dirty rat!”

“I am not a rat!” Pipyr screamed from Sansa’s lap, sticking her tongue out.

Arya closed her eyes, her brow furrowed as deep as she sighed. She was losing her patience, as she so often did when her brood surrounded. Attempting to save them all her wrath, Sansa tightened her grip on Pipyr and chastised, “Inside voice.”

Gunar picked the bag of ice up off his face long enough to give Nymeria a wary look. It was usually he that buffered their mother and broke up the children’s petty squabbles, when he wasn’t off with Durran. Though, when occasion called for it, Nymeria stepped up to the plate. She blew out a martyred sigh and stood between both her siblings, holding them apart. “We don’t hit each other.”

“Who do we hit?” Pipyr asked innocently.

Sansa startled a little when Arya slapped the table. Her gaze roved the room, giving each and every one of her children a look that only a mother could give. “Go play outside!”

“Me too?” Pipyr’s wide eyes blinked back at her, completely affronted.

“ _Now._ ”

Pipyr slid off Sansa’s lap and made it a point to indignantly stomp her feet down the hall after her siblings. Durran and Gunar remained on the couch until Arya turned her head and whistled. “Get!”

Finally free of children, Sansa listened to the beat of her own heart pounding between her ears. It had all happened so fast, and she was caught up in the undertow. She needed to focus, set her sights on the only beacon shining in the storm. Sansa turned to Stannis, picking up where she left off. “What is it going to take?” She would worry about vengeance afterward. All that mattered now was getting Petyr back.

His reply was stale. “Due process.”

Varys lifted his brows. “You’re not serious.”

Stannis looked at Sansa, holding her gaze for millisecond before he looked away.

“Oh, fuck that!”

Growing impatient both with her sister and the desperation that sank deep in her stomach, Sansa looked over at Arya. “Why don’t you take the kids home?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m here with you,” she insisted. Her hand, resting on her belly, started to move ever so slightly, her thumb rubbing back and forth.

Recognizing that unconscious gesture all too well, Sansa felt an all new degree of exhaustion. Arya only ever did it when she was pregnant. If Petyr was there and not behind bars, she’d call her out on it and demand to know whether it was Bronn or Gendry she needed to silently curse (not that Arya would ever tell) as Petyr passed out celebratory-- _obligatory--_ cigars. She would be surprised if it were Bronn; the man was getting on in years.

If Arya wasn’t announcing the pregnancy, then Sansa wouldn’t expend energy on it either. “Please, Arya.” Sansa held her forehead, squinting her eyes against the headache that inevitably grew.

Jon moved his hands to tell Arya that it might actually be more helpful if the kids were out of their hair while they plotted to get Petyr back. Appealing to her need to be useful helped take the sting out of standing to the sidelines. As if that weren’t enough, he added that since the arrest, the house was being heavily watched. Like it or not, her home was much safer for the children. Arya drew a deep breath and then nodded her head in agreement. “Alright. I’ll call Gen.”

She rose from the table, pulling her phone from her pocket as she walked off out of earshot, and it reminded Sansa of Petyr’s phone. Sansa snapped her fingers to get Arya’s attention and waved her back. “Yeah?” She asked, taking the phone away from her ear.

“Petyr’s phone.” Sansa pointed at her jacket pocket. When Mel came to arrest Petyr, Sansa ran for the kitchen and snatched it off the counter. Knowing no good place to stash it, she shoved it in the pocket of her robe, hoping the search warrant was only for the premises and not for her person. As she stood beside Arya, she got the brilliant idea to slip it into her coat pocket. They may have to search Sansa, but they had no cause to do so to her sister.

“Oh yeah.” She pulled Petyr’s phone from her pocket and then brought her own phone back to her ear. She set Petyr’s on the table as she argued into the mouthpiece. “Jesus-fuck, Gen. I know that!” Her bickering trailed off as she stalked down the hall.

Wasting no time, Sansa handed Petyr’s phone to Varys. “Here, keep this somewhere. All our moves will be watched from here on out.” At least she thought they would, anyway. In truth, she’d never been caught before--didn’t really know how it all worked.

Her mind flashed to Petyr’s hands cuffed behind his back, the way he stared back at her over his shoulder. His expression was a mixture of apology and consolation. Where was the worry that turned every nerve ending to pin pricks? The sudden sweat of anxiety to dampen his brow? Where was the fear that wadded into cotton drying and tying up his witty tongue?

She’d forgotten--he’d been through this before. Many years ago. Perhaps it was like riding a bike, one never quite forgetting the reality of police custody.  

“I’ll take it.”

Sansa looked up to see Elenei standing there, arm extended. “No. What are you doing here?”

She crossed her arms and pursed her lips. “I want to help.”

“You can help by watching your cousins.” Sansa glanced over to the sliding glass doors and the back deck where children ran rampant.

Elenei growled, “Fuck that--I’m not their mother.”

“Elenei!” Sansa stood up to tower over her daughter. She was still taller than her by an inch, and knew that soon the day would come when they’d meet eye-to-eye, and hoped they’d see that way as well.

Too proud to bow, Elenei mouthed back, “He’s my father!”

“She’s right, Mum,” Durran spoke from around the corner, his voice nasally from fracture. Having a vested interest in conversation concerning Petyr, the boys had snuck in on Elenei's coat tails. So much for obedience.

Sansa’s glance darted between the two. “Is that how it’s going to be then? The two of you yipping at my feet-- _wasting time_? While your father’s left to sit in a cell.”

Durran’s face dropped. “Nah, Mum, I-”

“Enough!” Sansa waved her arms toward the door. “Out of my sight, both of you!”

“I’m not a child,” Elenei snapped. “And I can help! You’d know that if you weren’t being so fucking stupid!” She exclaimed as she made for the door.

“Excuse me?” Sansa whipped her head around and charged after her.

Elenei whirled, and shoved her face into Sansa’s. “I said, ‘ _Stupid!_ ’ Or are you deaf, too?”

It had been a reflex. Truly. There was absolutely no thought behind the way Sansa’s hand came up and struck her baby girl across the cheek. The sound of her palm clapping against Elenei jarred Sansa out of her own shock. Rather than apologize, she stayed the course. “You will not speak to me that way _ever again._ Do you understand me?”

Elenei held her cheek, tears glistening in her eyes.

It made her feel ugly. She cherished her daughter, doting on her always. Her words stung and Sansa had never known how to accept abuse, quick to retaliate. That it was against her own daughter made her sick to her stomach, tears welling behind her own eyes. She knew well how to hide her pain, and in this instance she’d swallow it down. Her actions could be considered discipline, though that didn’t make them sit any better with her. Donning the mantle of the hardened monster her daughter thought she was, Sansa repeated, “Do you?”

Sniffing back the tears, Elenei dropped her hand and turned her head, lifting her chin and pursing her lips. She had her mother’s pride, and in that moment Sansa couldn’t have been more rattled by it. Slowly, and deliberately, Elenei answered, “I’m not the one who struggles to comprehend.”

“Shiiiit,” Gunar breathed.

Sansa knew if she smacked her this time, it would have been premeditated, so she kept her hands to her sides. Durran was quick to defend her, “Stop calling Mum stupid!”

“What?” Elenei hissed. “It’s true.”

“Shut up!”

Elenei looked past Sansa to snicker at her brother. “She never went to school a day in her life--latched on to Dad and called it good.” She turned her gaze back to Sansa. “I guess I could call her lazy if you prefer.”

Jon’s hands rose in Sansa’s periphery and she knew he was trying to put Elenei in her place. It was no use. The girl was willful and her father had just been taken. She’d bite any hand that neared her, regardless of whether or not it meant to feed her.

Sansa rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. “I don’t have time for this. I’m trying to get Dad back.”

“Then try harder!” Elenei groused.

“Elenei Baelish!” Varys’ voice boomed behind Sansa. “You should be ashamed of yourself! Speaking to your mother this way.”

“She should be ashamed of how-”

“Remove yourself,” Varys growled. “Now. Or Brune will.”

Sansa glanced over to Brune who looked to her for guidance. Elenei’s insistence, _“You wouldn’t_ ,” only made Sansa close her eyes and nod her head. Brune stepped forward, his hands clamped around her arms.

“No!” Elenei screamed in between obscenities.

He ignored her pleas and marched her out the door. As soon as he shut and locked it, Elenei was beating her fists against the glass and cursing everyone out. Offering the same support as his Uncle Jon, Durran placed a hand on his mother's shoulder. “I’ll talk to her, get her to see reason.”

Petyr was gone. There was no _seeing reason_.

The sound of a throat clearing made Sansa turn around. Stannis. She’d almost forgotten he was there. He straightened his tie as he glanced around him, no doubt trying to determine if any more Baelish drama would unfold, or if it was a safe time to talk.

Sansa nodded to Durran and waved him off after his sister. Durran was quick to signal for Gunar to follow him. Part of her knew this was a convenient excuse for the boys to leave the hot seat, but seeing as how she wasn’t sure she wanted them to hear everything, it worked to her advantage. The sound of Gunar’s boots scuffing on the floor faded away before she turned to Stannis and asked, “Yes?”

“In order-” Stannis cleared his throat again, caught in the headlights of their sudden attention. “In order to get an arrest warrant, they needed to have motive, means, and opportunity.”

Illyrio Mopatis was a snivelling shit-licker with sticky fingers and a growing sense of entitlement. For years, he’d played the role of ambassador across the water, and for years everyone profited. It had been a decimal that did him in. The error so miniscule that whenever found, was righted as if it had been a simple typo. Yet, as time told, that typo kept reemerging. The latest instance had involved a shipment shared by both the Baelishes and the Greyjoys. Upon discovery of his betrayal, Petyr thought it best to allow Victarion in on the retribution. Sansa agreed, knowing it would alleviate any concern the Greyjoys might have had that the Baelishes were in on Mopatis’ deception.

Motive, means, and opportunity.

Petyr had them all.

The question was, how did they know that? Taking the words out of her mouth, Varys asked, “And what do they think qualifies for each?”

Stannis looked over at him and held his gaze for a moment before he looked down and admitted. “I don’t know.”

“You’re the police commissioner. I find it hard to believe that you know absolutely nothing.” Frustration added an edge to Sansa’s voice as she reminded him, “You seemed to know enough last night when you were cautioning us to Bywater.”

Stannis clenched his fist on the table and the teeth in his head as he growled, “And I’m apparently being kept out of the loop, aren’t I?” It seemed Sansa’s frustration was contagious.

“I will assume that your sway at the precinct has been compromised as well?” Varys shot him a speculative glance before reaching for his phone. “No way you can see to have Petyr released?”

“Not without a trial. Murder charges aren’t easily swept under the rug. Not to mention the media’s presence here today.” Stannis rose from his seat. “I’ll head down to the station and see what I can find out.”

Sansa stood up, Jon backing away a step to allow her out. He’d been protectively hovering around her, like the old days. Had it been because he thought she were in real danger? Or, had the absence of Petyr struck a primitive nerve in his body, forcing him to stand guard over a mother and her cubs? She reached out and squeezed his hand, silently telling him to relax as she walked Stannis to the door. Jon followed close behind, snapping his fingers for Brune to flank from the other side.

It was overkill.

Then again, Petyr had been removed from their home. He was supposed to be untouchable, and the fact that he suddenly wasn’t meant that their city was turning on it’s side. Stannis stopped at the door, a look of true pity on his face as he said, “Now would be a good time to consult a lawyer.”

Sansa’s eyes widened.

Court? No. That would never happen. It would never get that far. Stannis would go to the station, find out what they had and they would all work to blow holes in the information long before it ever got to trial. They’d be forced to release him.

Yes. That would work. Feeling confident in her decision, she flashed him a fake smile and nodded her agreement. He wasted no time on long goodbyes, simply turned and rushed down the walkway. Sansa closed the door and stared at the wood grain in front of her for the span of two breaths before she forced herself to face Jon and his neverending support.

His hands rose to say something consoling, but stopped when Varys appeared beside them. His gold ringed sausage fingers covered the mouthpiece as he spoke to Sansa. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

She was already following him into the garage, Jon tagging along, and Brune trailing behind. Ignoring the question, Varys beeped his car unlocked and spoke into the phone. “Yes, thank you, Barbrey. I understand.” He glanced over at Sansa and the loyal muscle that followed her. “Though, I can’t promise Mrs. Baelish will feel the same.”

That got her attention.

If that were the Barbrey she was thinking of--the only Barbrey in the city-- then Varys had been a step ahead of her. Barbrey Dustin Esq. was Petyr’s favorite attorney, and was known in more criminal circles as the Barracuda for the way she tore the prosecution to bits.

Varys waited until he got in before he hung up, ensuring that Sansa would follow. As soon as her car door shut, she heard two simultaneous slams behind her and knew the boys had followed. “What wouldn’t I understand?” She cut to the chase.

“Barbrey’s no longer practicing,” Varys spoke into the rearview mirror, backing out of the garage. He cut the wheel and put the car in drive, accelerating down the long drive. “She’s retired. Says she’s too old.”

She probably was--not that Sansa cared. Barbrey was the best of the best and Petyr would have the best, or else.

As they neared the gate, it was opening for a large van with a wolf and full moon painted on the sides. Gendry had arrived to pick up the children. Sansa didn’t bother to wave at him as she gripped the dashboard, feeling Varys brake to turn onto the road. “I assume you’re driving like a madman because you have a plan?”

“Yes.” He shot her a sidelong glance, and gripped the steering wheel harder. “Plan B.”

Sansa looked over her shoulder at Jon and Brune, both men holding onto the ‘oh shit handles’ on their sides. Feeling the car accelerate on the straight away, her head fell back against the headrest. She barely turned to look at Varys as she asked, “Which is?”

“Samwell Tarly.”

 

 

 

 


	4. Smoke On the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strong gust of wind would have bared all to the world. That was just the scandal she needed: Mob wife offers her body to lawyer in hopes of freeing her man.

As the car came to a stop, Sansa looked around, taking note of the pristinely manicured lawns, and strong curb appeal. Each house that lined the street was a variation on the colonial style, all shutters and doors freshly painted with brass plated street lights and house-shaped mailboxes. You could smell the homeowner’s association a mile away. “This isn’t Tarly’s office.”

“It’s Saturday,” Varys reminded her. “He’s not in his office. We’re at his home.” 

Sansa hadn’t expected that. It was odd to see someone out of where one usually did. Like the first time you catch your grade school teacher at the grocery with a cart full of cat food and boxed wine. “Oh, right.”

She looked out her window at the house they were parked in front of, noting how much larger it was compared to the others. Tarly had clearly been doing well for himself. Jon opened her door and she took his hand to step out, her legs unsteady from a mixture of the ride and nerves. Sansa looked down at the walkway, feeling each groove of the cold brick and mortar press upon her bare feet. She’d been in such a rush, she hadn’t thought to put shoes on. Turning her attention to the navy blue door with the cranberry wreath decorating it, she told herself that shoes weren’t necessary, and that she absolutely didn’t look ridiculous running around barefoot.

Jon knocked on the door and Brune stood in front of her, protecting her from any attack. He obviously didn’t know Tarly; the man was hardly Rambo. Varys had been behind her, and it wasn’t until the lock on the door slid, that she realized he’d positioned himself directly behind her to block any attack from behind. Sansa knew they were loyal to her, but she hadn’t experienced such security from them since the Lannister fall some twelve years prior. 

Petyr was gone--of course they were all in high alert. She chided herself for not acting likewise. What would Petyr think, seeing her so naive? Had she learned nothing in all this time? No. She’d been comfortable--too comfortable. Biting the inside of her cheek she told herself she would be better. She would be  _ harder _ . 

A woman with mousy brown hair and a doe-eyed look opened the door. Her face was round and it’s features large, though her frame looked average--well, average with a couple extra helpings. She looked quite common and had to be Tarly’s help. “Is Tarly home?” Sansa asked from around Brune. Jon cleared his throat and the man stepped aside, noting how little threat the woman presented. 

“May I ask who’s callin’?” She asked, suspiciously. The entourage that accompanied Sansa suddenly seemed like overkill. 

“Sansa Baelish.” 

Her eyes widened. “Mrs. Baelish?!” 

“Yes,” she smiled. People often got excited at mention of her name. 

“Come in, come in!” The girl moved to the side and waved her in. “Sam will be so happy to see you!” 

“Who is it, Gilly?” Samwell Tarly, Esq. called from the other room. 

Brune and Jon marched ahead, Sansa glancing back at Varys to watch him follow. He nodded her forward, as if she needed such a signal. If he sensed any hesitation at all, it was due to the awkwardness of being somewhere so out of context. 

“It’s Mrs. Baelish,  _ herself, _ Love,” the woman named Gilly chirped ahead. She was apparently, not the help.

He was silent in his reply, but his fallen face upon their entry was response enough. Undeterred, Sansa smiled. “Hello, _ Sam _ .” 

“Sansa,” he acknowledged, placing an arm around the woman named Gilly. “To what do I-”

“Mr. Baelish has been detained,” Varys interrupted. There really was no time to waste. 

Gilly gasped. “Oh that’s horrible!” 

Tarly lifted his chin. “People are only arrested if they commit a crime.” 

“Or if there’s a mistake, Sam.” Gilly furrowed her brow at him, turning to place a hand on his broad soft chest. “You know that.” Tarly had wanted to play for the prosecution, but found all his fortune dabbling on the dark side of defense. It was no wonder the little lies he had to tell himself to suffer through.

His hand covered hers, his head turned to flash her a shy smile. “Quite right, Love.” Glancing over to Sansa, he spoke to his woman. “I bet they would like some refreshments.”

Gilly turned to them, a small blush on her cheeks as she asked, “Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee, please.” Sansa smiled politely. 

The girl scurried away, catching two small children as she did, shooing them in the kitchen. “Daddy needs to talk.” 

“He’s not my Dad,” the tallest one scowled. 

“He is when he lets you play the hand-held, isn’t he?” She quipped just before the door closed behind them. 

Tarly ducked his head, and rubbed his chin, disconcerted by the collision of professional and personal lives. He cleared his throat. “If Baelish has been caught, and his wife is standing in my parlor, hardly dressed-”

Sansa glanced down at her satin robe. Modestly crossed over her chest, it cinched tightly at her waist, and stopped mid thigh. A strong gust of wind would have bared all to the world. That was just the scandal she needed:  _ Mob wife offers her body to lawyer in hopes of freeing her man. _

“I’d imagine this isn’t a social call,” Tarly finished. 

“Correct as always,” Varys replied from behind her. 

Tarly held his hands up in the air and shook his head decidedly. “Save it. Whatever you have to say. I’m not interested.”  

She considered threatening him, but decided to save that tactic for a last resort. “You’ve helped me before,” she reminded him. 

“And what has it gotten me?” 

“A decent life, by the looks of it,” Varys commented, running his fingertips over an ornate picture frame hanging on the wall beside him. “Wife, kids, suburbs--on the good side of town. Was that your BMW out front, or was it the Missus’?”

Tarly grinned like that cat who got the cream, proud to prove his point. “All paid for with honest money.” 

“Not everything,” Varys hissed. 

Sansa darted a glance between the two men. Did Tarly have a secret? “Whatever it is, we’ll help finance.” 

“You’re off your game,” Tarly growled. “As you can see, she’s not illegal anymore. A real citizen--married her and adopted the boy. So you can threaten me all you like, it won’t do you any good.”

Sansa looked up at the picture Varys bad been strategically admiring. Tarly and Gilly stood side by side in their Sunday best with both young boys stationed in front of them. “Please,” she asked, allowing the vulnerability to sound in her voice. Samwell Tarly had always had a soft spot for a woman in need. Sansa had pegged him from day one and had tried not to take advantage of that fact too much over the years, but it was something that came in handy from time to time. “My family…” She trailed off, as if she lacked the strength to put it to words. 

“Come on, Sam!” Gilly exclaimed from the doorway, holding a steaming hot cup of coffee. Sansa had no idea how long the woman had been standing there, but watched with a slightly bemused expression when she strode over to her and carefully handed her the cup. Gilly gave her a reassuring smile as she spoke over her shoulder to Tarly. “Can’t you help her out?”

He gave her an exasperated sigh. “Gilly, Love, they were just threatening to have you deported.”

Gilly approached him, gently clutching his arm as she shrugged. “She’s desperate.” She gestured to the spectacle of Sansa standing there barefoot in a her robe. “Just look at her.”

“Do you know who she is?” His hand covered hers protectively. 

Gilly declared resolutely--and rather naively, “A woman without her husband.” 

They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment before Tarly hung his head in defeat. “You’ll be the death of me.”

She flashed him a gleeful grin and traced her fingers over his pudgy cheek. “Then we’ll die together, my  _ Romeo _ .”

He turned into her more, lust darkening his eyes as he lowered his voice and said, “My  _ Juliette. _ ”

Sansa glanced over to Jon, who rubbed his palm over the back of his neck and wrinkled his brow at her. A look to Varys had him rolling his eyes in exasperation. Brune stood stock still as was his way. Still, she couldn’t help but get the impression that he too could have done without such an intimate view into their relationship. Petyr would have told her it was information, and therefore useful, regardless of how awkward. She drew Tarly’s attention back to her. “You’ll represent him?” 

Gilly nodded agreement for him. Tarly groaned, “I haven’t much choice, have I?” 

No. He didn’t. Though, it was much cleaner to have his wife force his hand than the Baelish family mob. Petyr would have enjoyed how neatly that had been handled. “When can I see him?” She voiced the question aloud, not realizing it until every set of eyes turned to her. “Petyr,” she clarified.

Tarly cleared his throat, and gave her a solemn look. “It’s not likely that you’ll see him before court. He’s high profile--they won’t post bail and they won’t allow visitors outside of his attorney.” 

Oh. 

Sansa felt her stomach fall on her feet. Everything he said made sense except the part where she was being kept from her husband. “How long do you suppose it will take for this to reach court?” 

“Because he’s so high profile, the DA will push this to move fast.” 

“Good,” Varys breathed beside her. 

Tarly shook his head. “It gives us less time to make a case for him.” 

“Then you’ll have to work fast, won’t you?” Varys sneered. 

Sansa couldn’t have agreed more, but was playing the part of good cop and couldn’t say as much. To further the facade, Sansa supported Tarly. “I have faith he won’t disappoint.” 

Gilly beamed beside him. Turning her attention back to Sansa, she shined her warm smile upon her, leaning in as she offered, “I can lend you some clothes, if you like.” She glanced down at Sansa’s robe. “You must feel so exposed.”

Her wardrobe truly hadn’t mattered to her--until Gilly drew attention to it. Sansa began to decline, planning to return home and change, when Varys interrupted, “The natives are getting restless _. _ ” 

Oh, fuck. 

That specific phrase was code for: Families are stepping out of line. Word had evidently gotten out that Petyr was detained and some ambitious upstarts were choosing to take advantage of the situation. It always started with looting and small hits, and only progressed from there if left untreated. How quickly they all turned coat, nipping and clawing at each other in Daddy’s absence. 

Every muscle in her body tightened, freezing her in place feeling the mutiny rising around her. She looked down at the bundle of clothing thrust into her grasp and followed the arms that held them up to soft face that smiled back at her. “Here,” she soothed. “Bathroom’s just this way.”

Sansa said nothing, following her down the hall to the small bathroom decorated with bright yellow rubber ducks everywhere from the shower curtain to the bathmat, to even the toothbrush holder. It was excessive and tacky and adorable in the awkward way that was Gilly and Tarly and the small life they’d created together. Sansa turned to her. “You’re so kind.”  _ Suspiciously so _ …

“You and Mr. Baelish have always been so kind to us,” she explained, to Sansa’s confusion. Had they been? Sansa only ever called Tarly when she needed him, which she could count on one hand over the span of two decades. Gilly walked a little further down the hall, waving her to follow. She gestured to an end table that showcased a carved wooden chess board, sat atop an old world doily she must have brought with her from whatever country she’d immigrated from. It was a beautiful board to be sure, though it wasn’t the display that caught Sansa’s attention so much as the pieces themselves. They had a gold and silver finish and there were a considerable amount missing--most of the major ones. 

Sansa lifted the rook closest to her, feeling the weight of it in her hand. She inconspicuously scratched at it with her thumb nail, finding it to be solid gold.

“Sam says it’s too flashy to put out in the parlor, worried we’ll be showing off. You know men.” Gilly smiled shyly. “But I think a set like this is meant to be seen, so we compromised on this hallway off the study.”

“It’s nice,” Sansa said, because she didn’t know what else to say. 

“The boys and I look forward to our yearly pieces. Opening the package in the mail with the new piece and it’s partner has become as much a part of our holiday celebrations as anything else.” Gilly held a golden pawn and a silver pawn together in her hands as demonstration. She frowned a little, her voice quieting as she admitted, “Sam wonders what will happen once we have a complete set.”

Sansa was left to wonder the same thing. What had Petyr’s end game been with this annual gift? If she knew her husband at all, it was simple stage-setting and relationship building to later call in a favor. Gilly seemed a simple person, too innocent to realize the world her husband reluctantly tiptoed in. Tarly was right to be suspicious. 

Gilly set the pieces down, averting her gaze from Sansa as she said, “He’s paranoid because of your reputation.” She repeated, “You know how men can be.” Gilly gave a faint chuckle as she fingered another piece. “He’s worried you and Mr. Baelish will call in a favor once the board is complete.” 

_ Oh, you sweet girl. Where did Tarly find you?  _

“If that is the case-” She looked up, meeting Sansa’s eye. “I would hope that our help in this matter now would count towards that.” 

Sansa blinked, surprised. Perhaps Gilly was more worldly than she let on. There was still a business to run, and it wouldn’t stop because Petyr was gone. That was a pain for her to suffer all on her own, no matter how overwhelming. Sansa clutched the clothes close to her chest and walked back down the hall, stalling at the door to whisper, “You have my word.” 

She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her before she could witness Gilly’s sigh of relief. No sooner had the latch clicked shut, did tears stream down Sansa’s cheeks. She leaned against the door, hugging the polyester blend bundle in her arms. The minute Petyr stepped his foot over the threshold of their home, she’d felt his absence. Every minute thereafter the void felt without him only grew larger. 

Movement beside her had her whipping her head to look at her reflection in the mirror. She was a pale-faced mess. Crows feet framed bloodshot eyes--the darkened skin recessed--advertising her despair. It had been too early and sudden for makeup, no chance to conceal or tone. She would be appalled if Petyr ever saw her looking this decrepit. He cherished her for her strength and beauty and here she was, crumbling in a small suburban bathroom covered in bright yellow ducks with loud orange bills, merely a couple of hours after losing him. 

_ Disgusting. Pathetic. You can do better.  _

Turning the faucet on, she washed her face in the sink and dried it in the hand towel hanging beside the mirror. Taking a deep breath, she tucked her hair behind her ears and whispered silently to her reflection. “You are Sansa Baelish. Sansa-goddamned-fucking-Baelish!” Pursing her lips and clenching her jaw, she thought,  _ You will not be undermined.  _ Untying her robe, she let it fall to the floor and lifted her chin at her naked mirror image.  _ People will pay.  _ She reached for the clothes, unfolding the pair of jeans.  _ There will be no end to the pain. _ Stepping into one leg and then the other, she relived the morning.  _ Dared to take him from our home--from my side.  _ Her teeth ground as pulled the pants up over her ass.  _ The audacity. _ Fastening the button and zipper, feeling it scrape against her intimate places with no underwear to serve as barrier, she reminded herself, _ All things are temporary. I will have my husband back.  _ She ignored the awkward feeling of jeans that were a size too large and unfolded the cotton tee left for her, pulling it over her head. Her breasts hung braless beneath the material, and she tried to ignore the fact that she was too  _ mature  _ now to get away with not wearing a bra.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” she said to Gilly, as she left the bathroom. 

“Of course,” she smiled back.

Tarly interjected, “I’ll shower and head over to the station to meet with my client.” 

“Good.” Sansa turned abruptly and strode out the door with Varys, Jon, and Brune trailing behind. They had barely gotten out the door before she began barking orders. “Brune, I want the first Fray you find strung up by his balls--literally. I’ll take a foreskin as proof.” The Frays were always the first to feel their wrath, because they were always the first to defect. 

Jon’s eyebrows lifted in surprise at just how suddenly she’d switched from desperate housewife feeling sorry for herself to ruthless mob boss ready to make everyone else sorry too. She ignored his reaction, pausing in front of the door, waiting for him to open it. Realizing what he was meant to do, he jumped forward and held it open for her. “Jon, you will stay by my side at all times until this is over. Leave me only ever to escort one of the children. Arya will keep her children at Wolfswood. No visits until it’s safe.”

Jon nodded and got in the backseat. Brune pulled his phone from his pocket and began walking down the street, picking up a ride to the nearest Fray. The man was nothing if not efficient.  

“And my assignment?” Varys asked as he got in the car and started the engine.

Sansa thought of the major families in the city, deciding who was the least trustworthy. It had been a delicate balance keeping everyone in check, the slightest change in circumstance was enough to upset the equilibrium. Corbray was never one to trust in, his only living son even less. The Karstarks ran to the beat of their own drum, and the families that had been absorbed from Jaime and Cersei over a decade ago would never be a hundred percent loyal. 

It was time to cancel them out. 

“Call Corbray and tell him we’re on our way.” 

“Lyonel is-”

“Not Lyonel,” Sansa corrected. “Lyn.”

“Lyn?” Varys questioned. 

“Did I stutter?” She growled. 

Varys glanced over to her as he ran through a red light. “Is there a reason why you want the son and not the father?” 

“Lyonel is smart enough to know it best to hold off on any grasping until Petyr’s been locked up for more than a couple of hours. Lyn’s a stupid shit who will jump at any chance to better himself.” She pulled the visor down and stared at Jon behind her as she said, “So let’s give him the chance.”

Jon furrowed his brow, his hands moving to ask her whether or not there would be any  _ smoke on the water _ tonight. It was an expression Bronn had taught him many years ago, before he started banging Arya and their friendship faded. It came from the south, old folks used to say the fog that rolled over the water at night was from the devil down below raising hell. People said it when they felt trouble brewing, danger in the air.

“Hopefully not,” she answered, feeling her stomach turn at the thought of fighting a mob war without Petyr at her side. “I’m going to have Lyn watch the Karstarks, and I’m going to have the Karstarks watch Lyn.”

“Ah, you’re arbing--betting both sides,” Varys realized. “Petyr would be proud.”

Sansa couldn’t think about that. If she so much as pictured her husband’s smug smirk, she would weaken, she knew it. Willfully ignoring the statement, Sansa added, “We’ll call Vegas and have him and the boys run herd on the Marbrands, Leffords, and stray Lannisters.”

_ Grafton? _ Jon signed from the back.

Sansa shook her head. “No. Pretty Boy freaks him out--it’s distracting. We’ll send Grafton to the Reeds, tell Jojen to prep for disposal if necessary.” She remembered receiving word a few days prior that Jyana had been under the weather. “Send Grafton with flowers for Jojen’s mother too. Howland will appreciate the attentions paid his wife. It will soften him to our current situation.” 

_ The Glovers? Manderly? _ Jon asked. 

“Wylis is still at fat camp and Gawen flew out yesterday to visit him,” Varys supplied. It took Wylis until his father passed away to come out of the closet. Upon learning Wylis was out, Gawen wasted no time staking his claim and the couple had been inseparable ever since--with the exception of Wylis’ quest for gastric bypass. “Banshee’s always up for a contract.” 

“Then let’s hire her. Put her on the Greyjoys.” Sansa knew there was someone she’d been forgetting in all the chaos. “Vic’s been taken in too, and I want to know what his family is up to.” She glanced down at her feet. Gilly hadn’t considered shoes when offering the ill-fitting outfit. “First, however, we’re stopping for shoes.”

Hours passed until most of the day had. People were cajoled, coerced, and contracted. She hadn’t agreed to go home until the city knew in no uncertain terms that the Baelishes still reigned supreme. More tired than she’d felt since when the children were still infants, Sansa dragged herself through the front door, and kicked off the five-dollar flats Jon grabbed off the shelf of the first store Varys’ gps found on Tarly’s side of the city. 

Silently cursing Jon for his choice of shoe, Sansa knew he was a guy and didn’t care about those sorts of things, but would it have killed him to grab something leather? She could still hear Lyn’s smart mouth upon taking in her appearance, “Wow, Baelish has been gone for five hours and you’re already reduced to Walmart Supercenter.” 

“ _ Wow _ ,” she mimicked. “It took my husband being gone for you to find your balls.”

When he refused to be put in his place immediately, she continued, “You know, Petyr and I have a running bet as to whether or not you play top or bottom. I told him you were a dead-ringer for bottom.” He scoffed at that, rolling his eyes. She continued, smiling wickedly, “Not because of the makeup, the hair, or blatant male anorexia--but because only someone aching for a dick in the ass, tucks his away and pinches it between his cheeks.”

It was crass and insensitive and exactly what Lyn needed to shut the fuck up and follow direction. In the car later she glanced over at Varys apologetically. He stared at the road ahead and she wondered whether he’d been offended or if he was only quiet because he was just as consumed with getting Petyr back as she was. When it came to Petyr he could be single-minded, but the man also loved a good drag show. She was awful without Petyr.

The conversation with Harold Karstark hadn’t required such bluster--only a price tag she hadn’t the inclination to argue. Free reign to kill two Leffords who had supposedly screwed Hard Harry out of money on some bet they had at a dog fight. It was small and not worth two bodies, but Sansa allowed it, knowing it was a small price to pay.  

Sansa made for the kitchen, Gilly’s baggy jeans riding uncomfortably on her hips and thighs. Varys and Jon followed silently behind--her two shadows. Jon pulled shot glasses from the cupboard at the same time Varys foraged in the freezer for a bottle of whiskey. It was good they were on the same page, all three of them quite parched. Sansa reached for her phone, about to text Petyr when she remembered she couldn’t. It was such a strange feeling, being so cut off from him. Even when they’d been separated, they stayed in communication. Hell, one time she’d even ditched her phone to avoid him and he was in her hotel room within hours. Nothing could keep him from her. 

A tear rolled down her cheek as she silently recited a part of her wedding vow to him,  _ Nothing will keep me from you, as it is only by your side that I belong. _ Varys said nothing as he clinked his glass against hers and Jon’s, their toasts entirely to themselves. Together they all downed their shots and stared at their empty glasses, Sansa sinking down onto the barstool, setting her elbow on the counter to keep herself upright. Looking over at her phone beside her glass, something occurred to her. “Petyr’s phone.” 

“Is safe,” Varys assured her. 

“We need to get it to Rickon. He can strip it and wipe it clean.” 

Varys nodded and Jon pulled out his phone. 

“What are we giving Uncle Rickon?” Durran asked as he walked into the kitchen, casually waving at the bottle on the counter. “Pour me a glass.”

“Funny,” Sansa said, reaching for him. 

“Can’t blame me for trying,” Durran said, not avoiding her hold when she pulled him into a hug. 

“Where is Elenei?”

“In her room.” Durran allowed Sansa to embrace him just a moment longer before he squirmed to be let free. Twelve year olds rarely tolerated prolonged displays of affection. Sansa assumed he only allowed as much as he had because he was upset and needed his mother. Though it was he that was trying to comfort her, saying, “She’ll calm down the crazy once Dad gets home.” 

Sansa nodded. “I know.” 

“Hey, Mum?” 

“Mm?”

Durran looked at Jon and Varys before he turned to her and asked, “Dad will be home soon, right? You’ve got this under control, right?” 

Sansa’s heart stuttered in her chest and she felt herself stall, staring at the hopeful expression on her son’s face. She wanted to say yes, of course she had it all under control. That was a lie, however. Blinking at him, she tried to answer, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. 

“Of course she does!” Varys promised, throwing an arm around the boy. “Your father won’t be gone long.”

“Are you and Uncle Olly staying the night?” Durran asked, eagerly. 

Varys looked to Sansa. “We can if you want us to.” 

Durran turned to her. “Please, Mum? Until Dad gets back? Auntie Aerie took Gunar home…”

Durran had always been a quiet child, though that didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate being around people. As long as he’d been alive, he was surrounded by either Stark family members or Baelish entourage. It made sense that being alone would feel uncomfortable to him. In truth, the idea of Jon heading back to the pool house and the kids staying in their rooms, made Sansa dread the loneliness of such an empty house without Petyr in it. 

She nodded her approval to Varys, secretly thankful for his willingness to stay, and reached for the bottle. “We’re going to need more of this.” 

“I’ll tell Olly to pick some up on his way over.” 

Jon looked up from his phone and showed Sansa the text message from Rickon that read,  _ Anything you need. _

  
  
  



	5. Old Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping his head down, he glanced up under his eyelashes to spy the man he’d ruin later.

Petyr kept his eyes on the guard in front of him. The man kept his head down, focused on releasing the famous mob boss from his restraints. Tarly had wanted them left as they were to make him look more vulnerable. DA Jace, however, wouldn’t stand for it. Truth be told, Petyr wouldn’t either. It was important to look common in front of the twelve average joes selected to deliver verdict on his future. That didn’t mean, however, that business had stopped. 

The room was packed to the rafters with capos and their soldiers, associates and representatives for more foreign connections. Petyr refused to go in looking disempowered in front of them. This case was but a blink of time in his exorbitant life of crime. It would eventually come to a close and he would be reunited with his family--he was certain of it. What would happen then? The wrong people would remember the time he was weakened and strike. 

He could never allow that. Luckily, Sansa understood how things worked, and neither would she. She had a fresh suit delivered for him to wear each day of his trial, ensuring his appearance. This balancing act of his was important and his wife would not disappoint. He ached to see more of her, but knew glancing over his shoulder would be undignified. Neither Littlefinger the mob boss or Petyr Baelish the upstanding member of society, was some slack-jawed imbecile gawking at the crowd gathered around him. 

A strobe light of cameras flashed around him, documenting his every micromovement. So much for his privacy. Tarly said that judges were known to ban cameras and recording devices from the courtroom, though it seemed this particular judge wasn’t so inclined. He was a new player in the game, a judge pulled from out of town to rule unbiased. 

As if that were even possible.

DA Bywater was too wise to the corruption and moved things along quickly--too quickly. There was something amiss with that man, and Petyr had felt it since his acceptance speech on the six o’clock news. Hearing that Victarion Greyjoy had been taken in, only confirmed it. It had to be a distraction. 

Vic was a big fish, but not as big as Petyr. Stannis had warned him that they’d taken Vic in because that was the only intel available at the time. Jace Bywater had clearly moved on Vic to turn all heads in the station to the Greyjoy in lockup. He diverted their attention away from him as he moved behind the curtain, pushing the process for Petyr’s arrest warrant. 

It took cojones, Petyr would give him that. 

Keeping his head down, he glanced up under his eyelashes to spy the man he’d ruin later. As Petyr sat down behind the defense table, he leaned back in his chair, careful not to look too relaxed, or even the slightest bit riled. It was an open, non-threatening posture that would make him look less aggressive. He was on trial for murder and quite guilty of many things, Bywater claiming that he was intimidating whatever witnesses they dragged to the stand, was the last thing he needed. 

Petyr bit the inside of his cheek at that thought, barely containing his amusement. Hunching over in his chair and scowling was too neanderthal to be his style of intimidation. Instead, Petyr preferred a less vulgar approach. He and Sansa motivated men into compliance by offering their children a ride home from soccer practice, or bumping into their wives while they shopped. Very rarely did anyone ever need harming to make their point. 

With a small gust of breeze in the courtroom at the whoosh of the door opening and closing, the familiar scent of Sansa’s perfume filled Petyr’s nostrils. His self-control waxing and waning, he almost gave in to the need to turn to face her. 

And reach for her.

It had been weeks since he’d laid eyes on her while they built their case, and his body was painfully aware of the fact that she was no more than a foot away, sitting loyally behind him. Petyr hadn’t been on trial since he was in his twenties, and had forgotten how austere it all could be. Having Sansa behind him, gave him the strength not to slouch in such a hot seat. She was so completely in his corner and he was certain now always would be.

Not a trophy wife to run at the first flash of blue lights, she stood proudly behind his seat at the defense table. He’d spied her the moment he entered the courtroom, lead in by his cuffs and the not-so-hushed whispers of the onlookers. She wore muted colors to better show the strain of not having her husband around to help provide and care for their children. She had also gone light on the makeup and dialed down the jewels--all to appear more identifiable to the jury. It had been Tarly’s advisement to take away their true character and replace it with one much more virtuous. Petyr snickered at that. Neither he, nor his wife, could ever be confused with saints. 

Jon and Varys flanked either side of her, shielding her from the rest of the courthouse audience. It was important not to sit too close to any other family, lest she appear too chummy. The ground beneath their feet had grown unstable and she could trust no one but immediate family.

For their protection, Elenei and Durran had been left at home. While Petyr would have them there to learn from the experience he was caught in, Tarly nixed the idea. He said it would come off as a heavy-handed grab for pity, that no one would be fooled by, and it would only backfire on them. He insisted it wasn’t prudent parenting to expose minors to the gruesome aspects of a murder trial, and the new character he crafted for Petyr cared very deeply about being a vigilant parent. There could be absolutely no blemishes on Petyr’s character. Anything even remotely undesirable would somehow scream,  _ Murderer! _

Tarly had prepared him well. As he scoured the police reports he reminded Petyr the very fact that he was on trial, already biased the jury to his guilt. Innocent people would never be suspected in the first place. For a man who loathed crime, he navigated it perfectly and had turned into an excellent defense attorney. Had Barbrey been mobile enough, she would have been proud to see her protege work. 

So caught up in the scent of the woman behind him, Petyr barely paid attention to the opening formalities of rising and swearing and introductions. He caught only part of Jace’s speech, “...to keep the good people of this city safe from criminals, from those that would harm...those that would  _ kill _ .” He walked toward Petyr, his lantern jaw flexing as he carried on, “To prove that this man, murdered Illyrio Mopatis in cold blood, with-” He strode over to a box of evidence, pulling out an evidence bag with Petyr’s knife in it. Holding it up to the jury, he finished, “this knife left in the deceased’s chest.” He turned to face the audience. “Where Illyrio Mopatis was stabbed six times.” 

Petyr fingered his wedding band, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Jace acting like a proud peacock. All flare and showmanship. The man went so far as to run his fingers through his salt and pepper hair, so passionate in his statement. He flashed his deep-set eyes around the room as he emphasized the brutal nature of Mopatis’ death, and Petyr’s obvious guilt.

As planned, Tarly spoke to Petyr’s innocence. He painted a picture of a rich family man with a penchant for giving back to the community through various charitable contributions. He promised to prove that in no way could Petyr be responsible for the death of Illyrio Mopatis. 

It all started playing out exactly as Tarly had said it would. Jace called Detective Melisandre as his first witness, citing her as the lead investigator. Petyr heard Sansa shift in her seat behind him and could feel her tensing. He schooled his face to hide the small pleasure he took in the bad blood between the ladies. Mel had been callous the day she dared take him from his home, and Sansa wouldn’t stand for it. Neither would she forget. The grudge had taken root, and Petyr wouldn’t be surprised if when all the dust had settled an unidentified female body would be found in pieces in various five gallon pails around Long Lake.

Jace cut to the chase, lifting the bagged blade to inquire about it. Tarly had warned that it would be the cornerstone of the DA’s case, and the fact that it was actually one of Petyr’s didn’t help. Of course they would deny it, but the fact remained that it was his. It was a blade he hadn’t seen for a while, having lost it a month back at a celebration he and Sansa were attending. They had been drinking and fucking, and he thought it slipped out in the bathroom when they were going at it. Knives were dime a dozen, this one not particularly special to him, so he didn’t bother to retrieve it the next day when the hangover subsided.

“And can you please state for the jury, who the fingerprints on the knife found in Illyrio Mopatis’ chest belong to?” Jace’s voice raised, his eyes zeroed in on Petyr, allowing the courtroom the time to turn their heads to follow his gaze.

Mel leaned into the mic, her lipstick cracking on her lips and sticking to her teeth as she smiled. “Petyr Baelish.” 

Silence filled the courthouse, though Petyr felt the weight of their deliberation, their heads swimming with the information. For someone to have picked up his blade, used it to kill Mopatis, and only leave his fingerprints, they had to have been wearing gloves. This was deliberate. Someone was framing him, engineering things to put him in this position. He wished Sansa would lean forward and rest her hand on his shoulder, shove her nose in the back of his head and press a kiss into the base of his skull, whisper that she loved him. Something. Anything. 

She wouldn’t and he knew it. Tarly was strict in his counsel, advising them not to touch. Under the magnifying glass of a courtroom, any form of affection or reassurance could be twisted and interpreted into something ugly and detrimental. He heard her shift in her seat again and told himself she wanted to reach for him too. They were of the same mind; he knew that. She would follow Tarly’s directives only because she would do whatever to took to free Petyr; he knew that too. That didn’t stop him from hating her a little for it--or from loving her so severely for it, either. 

Tarly sounded a million miles away as he cross-examined Mel, drawing attention to her shoddy police work. He introduced the first seed of doubt that the prints were Petyr’s by pointing out various instances in the past that her reports had been proven inaccurate. 

Petyr watched her leave the stand, looking much like a stray cat rubbed the wrong way, disheveled and put out. Jace called out a name Petyr didn’t recognize at first, but realized quickly was Harys Swyft. He was the late Kevan Lannister’s father in law, relegated to dock work once the Lannister money stopped. His hair was white and thinning, his face weathered and his hands cracked from hard work. Much harder work than a man of his age should have been subjected to. 

People fell off the radar all the time and had Petyr known his circumstances would turn so dire, he would have tossed the man a buck or two over the years. Left to fend for himself, Harys had apparently taken whatever opportunity he could to feed himself. He must have been paid a pretty penny to speak against Petyr, either that or he was scared shitless of someone. Tarly told him Sansa wanted Harys cut off at the knees but Varys held her back, telling her that Swyft disappearing in the middle of a murder trial would only make things worse. Petyr appreciated Varys’ brain as much as he did his wife’s thirst for blood on his behalf. 

A quick glance to Tarly showed him sitting more at attention, though not entirely uneasy. He’d obviously expected the man, and had built a defense against him, whether or not he was confident in it. Harys’ voice, scratchy from years of smoking, rasped through the microphone in front of him. “Two of them. Stood mostly in the shadows.”

“And did they ever step out of the shadows? Were you able to get a good look at them?” Jace rest his elbow on the witness stand, lounging as if he were having any other manner of conversation in which a man’s life wasn’t hanging in the balance. “Could you identify the men in a line up?” 

“I don’t need a line up, Sir.” Harys pointed at Petyr. “The men that went down to that dock that night and killed Mr. Mopatis was him right there and Vic Greyjoy.” 

Jace turned to Petyr, a sparkle to his sunken eyes as he said, “Let the record show that the witness is pointing at the defendant.”

At that very moment, the door to courtroom opened and a cane poked through, the slender figure of an elderly woman slid in behind it. Petyr’s eyes scanned up over the thin skeletal frame, knobby knees and hip bones pointed through the plum skirt suit. High shoulder pads accentuated the pale bony chest that protruded from the v-neck dress blouse. Graying hair, pinned up in a tight bun, did little to draw attention from the withered face of Barbrey Dustin, Esq.

Petyr’s eyes widened at the sight of her. The woman had been old since he was a dumb juvenile delinquent, and somehow because of that, he’d never expected her to grow any older. As silly as that was. 

Jace continued to question Swyft as Barbrey hobbled down the aisle, white-knuckling her cane. She was breathing heavy and Petyr thought it a wonder she had made it so far from her bed. A quick glance back to Sansa had her snapping her fingers for Jon to slide further down the bench to allow Barbrey a place to sit and rest. Clutched to her chest was a manila folder and a small brown rectangular box. 

Her cloudy cataracts met his gaze, her lips pursed at him. Her trembling arm reached out to Tarly in front of her, offering the folder and box. Tarly gawked at her, flabbergasted by her presence, as he unburdened her. A faint dimple formed to one side of her mouth and she nodded to Petyr, telling him she knew something others didn’t. 

Of course she did. The old bat. 

She couldn’t handle Petyr’s case directly, so she did the next best thing, escaped her old folk’s home to dig up dirt and offer counsel. In her prime, Barbrey was a barracuda, ruthlessly tearing her opponents apart for sport, getting off on her courtroom victories. It would be foolish of Petyr to think she’d come out of devotion to him, rather than simply that the scent of such a high profile case had roused the predator from her rest. 

Tarly opened the file, his eyes scanning over the notes she provided. He glanced back at her only once before he cut right to the chase, wasting no time. “How long have you been a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, Mr. Swyft?” 

Harys cleared his throat, and loosened his tie. Petyr had seen this coming. Tarly had explained he would try to discredit Harys’ statement by pointing out his addiction. “Junkies and Alkies are unreliable at best,” Tarly had told him. 

Sweat gathered in a glossy sheen on the man’s forehead as he leaned forward. “I just picked up my ninety day chip last night.” 

“Congratulations, Mr. Swyft.” Tarly stepped toward the stand. “May I see it? Do you have it on you?” 

Harys glanced over to Jace, as if asking permission. Slowly he reached in his pocket and handed a small green disc over to him. Tarly inspected it and smiled. “To be clear, this token is earned through sobriety?” 

“Yes.” 

“Thank you.” Tarly handed it back to him. “Since Mopatis’ murder took place fifty-six days ago, this chip means that there would be no way you’d be under the influence of alcohol when you say you observed both Victarion Greyjoy and the defendant on the docks at the time of Illyrio Mopatis’ death.” 

“No.” 

Tarly continued his walk back toward his seat, reaching his hand out for the small box on the desk. “I hear your line of work can be very hazardous. So many pulleys and nets… Anything could get caught on them. That’s why most men don’t wear jewelry when they’re working the docks.” 

“That’s the truth of it, for sure.” Harys answered, more easy now. “My wedding ring nearly lost me my finger in a net once.” Harys held up his hand as evidence to his story. “I don’t wear anything that can get snagged or caught.”

Tarly smiled. “Not even glasses?”

Harys froze. 

Opening the box, Tarly pulled a pair of glasses out and held them up to Harys. “Do these belong to you?” 

Harys didn’t answer. 

Petyr glanced over at Barbrey. A wide grin spread unabashed across the woman’s face. Clever.

Tarly raised his voice. “Let the record show that I am holding up a pair of prescription glasses and I have asked the witness whether or not they belong to him.” 

“Yes,” Harys mumbled into the microphone. 

“They are called corrective lenses because they allow a person to see adequately. They  _ correct  _ a person’s sight.” Tarly strolled over to the jury, holding out the glasses so that they could all look and see the small magnifying lenses that Swyft’s optometrist had deemed necessary. “You said you don’t wear anything that could snag or get caught. Do you wear your glasses while you’re working?” 

Harys’ jaw tightened. 

“Were you wearing them when you _ allegedly _ saw Mr. Greyjoy and Mr. Baelish?” Tarly made sure each member of the jury had a good look at the glasses as he spoke, “In the shadows?” 

He glanced back at Harys. “And at night, no less.” 

Jace rose to object. “Your Honor-” 

“It’s a yes or no question,” Tarly interrupted, walking towards the prosecution. He set the glasses down on the table in front of Jace as he explained, “I simply want to ascertain whether or not the witness was wearing his glasses when he says he saw my client at the scene of the crime.” 

A private look passed between Harys and Jace before Jace pursed his lips and tipped his head. He sat back down in his seat with as close to a huff as any grown professional man could ever get away with. 

“No,” Harys said. “I wasn’t.” 

Petyr wanted to jump out of his seat, hop the divider and pull Sansa into his arms. He’d kiss every inch of her face with joy, onlookers be damned. This thing was won! It had to be. Barbrey came through with the intel, and he was going to be a free man. He simply had to sit through the rest of the show and wait patiently for them to dispense with the formalities of announcing his innocence. Petyr took a deep breath, never letting his excitement show, and reminded himself that he was a patient man. 

Varys was called next. It had been expected. Jace couldn’t call Sansa up, being that she was Petyr’s wife, so it made sense that he would call Petyr’s right-hand man of many years. Jace warmed to the subject. “Your boss has an appreciation for knives, does he not?” 

“Many people do,” Varys replied, his lips thinning. 

Jace smirked, and then cocked his head. “Particularly the balisong blade…better known as a _butterfly_ _knife_.”

Varys cocked his head back at him, mimicking and mocking the gesture. “Was there a question in there?” 

Petyr heard movement behind him and wondered if Sansa too took pleasure in how flippant Varys had been, or if she was warning him to watch his tongue. Sansa was smart enough to play things conservative, but rebellion resided within, and passion was known to rule her from time to time. Perhaps she felt just as confident in their success as he did, and allowed herself the happiness. Petyr closed his eyes and pictured the brilliance of her smile. 

“You’ve worked for Mr. Baelish for how many years now?” Jace’s voice interrupted Petyr’s daydream.

Having been coached ahead of time, Varys answered simply, “Twenty-three.” 

Jace nodded, approving. “You’ve known him for longer, correct?” 

The question was rhetorical and Varys didn’t bother answering it. Pressing the issue, Jace asked, “How long have you known Mr. Baelish?” 

Varys hesitated. “Twenty-seven years.”

“Try again.” Jace smirked.

“Excuse me?” Varys blinked at him, offense certainly taken.

“It is true that Petyr Baelish began working for your former employer, Jon Arryn, twenty-seven years ago. I’ll give you that.” Jace turned his back on the witness stand, and stepped toward the defense desk, his sunken eyes narrowing on Petyr as he did. “Word is, he’d been doing odd jobs for the Arryns for many years on and off prior to that, however.”

“I object,” Tarly rose. “Hearsay.”

The judge raised his brow curiously. 

Tarly explained, “ _ Word is _ , is hardly testimony.” 

“It’s not hearsay if there is a source, and that source is the FBI organized crime unit’s archived records detailing the Arryn family’s many associates.” Jace was practically tenting his pants with excitement.  

“Overruled.” The judge shook his head at Tarly and then waved to Jace. “Get to the point Counselor.” 

Jace schooled his expression to be more serious, and nodded back to the judge. “By my calculations, you’ve known--or at the very least _ known of _ Littlefinger-” Jace stopped himself mid-sentence to glance around the courtroom and correct himself, “Sorry, Petyr Baelish, for no less than thirty-eight years.”

Varys neither confirmed, nor denied that fact. Instead, he asked, “How is this relevant?” 

Jace smirked before he turned to look back at Varys. “I’m establishing your credibility as a witness. After thirty-eight years, it’s possible you know Petyr Baelish better than the man’s own wife.”

Petyr could feel the hateful energy radiating from behind him. Sansa cleared her throat and he could swear he heard her grind her teeth. Out of the very corner of his eye he was able to see Jon move a little, and he hoped it was to calm her. 

Jace reached for the bag of evidence labeled: forty-two. “Can you identify this knife to be Petyr Baelish’s?”

Varys leaned into the mic, and spoke clearly. “No.”

Loyal to the end. Petyr bit the inside of his cheek to hide his pride.

“No you can’t identify it? Or no it’s not his?” Jace’s brow furrowed, his voice hardening.

Varys sighed impatiently.  _ Only Varys could affect boredom at a murder trial, _ Petyr snickered to himself. 

“I can’t identify it because I’ve never seen it.” It was a bold-faced lie and Petyr couldn’t have appreciated his old friend more for it. 

Jace paused for a moment and then shook his head. Rather than beating the dead horse, trying to force the truth out of Varys, Jace moved on. Right to the night of the murder. “Can you account for your employer’s whereabouts?”

“He was attending the same fundraising soiree I was,” Varys answered, prepared for this question. 

“Witnesses have you leaving the party at 11:20PM with your partner.” Jace flipped through some notes at his desk. “The estimated time of the murder was at 12:35AM. Can you attest to Petyr Baelish’s whereabouts at 12:35PM?”

Varys looked to Petyr, silently apologizing with his eyes. It was clear he hadn’t expected Jace to clock his comings and goings to negate his testimony. “I would assume he went home with his wife.”  

“But you didn’t see him leave,” Jace reiterated. When Varys said nothing in return, Jace’s cheek twitched. “No further questions.” 

Jace had barely sat down before Tarly was up and fast approaching the witness stand. “As the prosecution has pointed out several times, you are well acquainted with Mr. Baelish. Particularly his business affairs.”

“That is my job, yes.” Varys had to act just as fresh with Tarly to appear less biased than he most certainly was. 

“And are you aware of any business Mr. Baelish may have at the docks with Illyrio Mopatis?” Tarly asked. 

Varys shook his head. “We have not had any business dealings with Mopatis for months, and none that would call Petyr himself down to the docks.” That was good. Respected businessmen at Petyr’s level wouldn’t meet with laborers themselves, using middle management to buffer. Heaven forbid they allow their blue blood mix or mingle with the blue collars they employed. 

Tarly smiled. “So in your estimation, Petyr Baelish would have no cause to be at the scene of the crime?”

Varys confirmed, “He would not.”

_ Motive, means, and opportunity.  _ That’s what Tarly said Jace had to pull together before he could send his shovel-faced hag after him. Jace had been leaning hard on means and opportunity, but hadn’t put much effort into motive. If he had been relying on their business relationship to offer a motive, Varys had just blown that out of the water by saying they hadn’t worked with him in a while. 

Assuming the jury believed him. 

  
  



	6. I Fought the Law

The next witness called was Suge Greyjoy, Vic’s wife. At five-nine, a hundred and twenty pounds of well-placed curves and hard-earned muscle tone, Suge was a dark skinned woman in her late thirties with long silver hair straightened and smoothed. Vic found her on the pole years ago and married her that same night, drunk and in love with her salty demeanor. A woman who talked back was a novelty to him and as any man ruled by passion, Vic impulsively decided he had to have her. He promised her the music career she’d been working towards, and asked only that she keep her looks and give him children. 

When the records didn’t sell and the test strips kept reading negative, everyone thought Suge would end up like each of Vic’s late wives--beaten and discarded. She surprised everyone, however, when she gave as good as she got, refusing to become past tense. In fact, Petyr had been present to bear witness the first and last time Vic ever hit her. 

The Baelishes and Greyjoys had gone out to eat. It had been mostly for pleasure with a hint of business, though nothing that would have contributed to Vic’s poor mood. It was clear he was unhappy with her in particular, making snide comments all throughout the meal about what a good wife was. At times, he even hinted that Suge could take some cues from Sansa. Petyr would have wondered for a moment if Vic was covetting, if he didn’t know better. The man was miserable and would use anything to make his wife’s mood match.  

Suge, having been inundated with Vic’s critiques, had apparently had enough. She calmly took a sip of her wine and smiled at Petyr and Sansa as she opened her mouth to say, “I appreciate him always telling me how to be better. I’d like to return the favor, but telling him to grow a bigger dick just doesn’t seem realistic.” She winked at Sansa and carved another hunk of meat off her steak. Never turning her head once to look at her husband staring back at her, agape, she jammed the fork in her mouth, defiantly. 

She’d barely chewed twice before Vic’s fist came out and cracked her hard in the jaw. Petyr remembered snapping his fingers for the curtain to be drawn on their private corner, and the warm press of Sansa’s hand in his, the look of disdain in her eyes. He knew she wouldn’t tolerate watching Vic’s abuse, and just as Petyr was about to say something, there was a loud clap that sounded through the air. They turned their heads quickly, realizing that Suge had slapped Vic’s cheek and was scrambling to climb in his lap. She fisted his hair and held her steak knife to his throat as she barked in his pale face. “You ever fucking hit me again, I’ll fuck your ass with a Ginsu! Do you hear me?!”

He swallowed, saying nothing as he stared wide-eyed back up at her. 

“I said, _ do you hear me? _ ” She drove the knife harder into his throat, paying no mind to the blood that trickled down onto his collar. 

Petyr and Sansa looked back at each other. A small smile teased the corners of Sansa’s mouth as Vic nodded, his lips pursed. 

“We tried!” She yelled at him, hot tears rolling over her swollen cheek. “There’s no babies and there’s no music. We tried.” 

Petyr watched her lean forward, never taking the knife off of him as she kissed him deeply, smearing her wet tears on his face. When she broke their kiss, she whispered loud enough to be heard across the table, “We both wanted them, and I don’t know why baby, but we can’t have them. We only got each other.” 

Vic’s hands came up and held her to him. “You’ve got the voice of an angel, Suge...and our babies…” His words were tight, more with emotion than the blade to his throat. “It’s not right. It’s just not fucking right.”

She nodded, her forehead pressed to his. The scene had become too intimate to be a party to, and Petyr tugged on Sansa’s hand, silently telling her so. She tightened her grip, holding him back to watch Suge drop the knife on the table. The woman spoke hurriedly--desperately, between kisses. “I know…” Kiss. “It’s not.” Kiss. “But you got me.” 

Vic met her lips. “I love you so much, Suge.”

She nodded against him. “Don’t hurt me, baby.” 

He shook his head agreeing. “No.”

“Hmm? Don’t hurt me,” she mewled against him. “Just keep loving me. Yeah?”

His voice was thick as he relented, “Oh,  _ Suge _ .”

She moved on him, grinding and nuzzling as she promised, “I got you. Always and ever after.” 

Vic’s hands started to wander, rubbing and squeezing his wife. Petyr cleared his throat, reminding him of their presence. When neither Greyjoy startled or gave any indication that they were even slightly aware of the scene they were making, he looked at Sansa and silently insisted they leave. Sansa smirked and allowed him to lead her out. 

How many times had they been in similar situation? Granted, the Baelishes’ station was high enough to allow certain improprieties, but love rarely cared about reason and order. Petyr understood all too well what it felt like to succumb to the desire Sansa created in him--especially when she was straddling his lap, giving him her undivided attention. The Greyjoys’ private moment truly couldn’t be held against Vic. 

They were just at the curtained exit when Petyr heard Vic’s hushed insecurity bubble to the surface, “You really think my dick’s small?” 

He and Sansa looked at each other, amusement plain on their faces, as they listened to Suge deny it. “No, baby. I just wanted to hurt you back. Your dick’s just right.” There was another moan before she added, “Show me how right it is.”

And so they stayed together. 

If Vic had ever laid a hand on her again, no one knew it. She’d done what no other woman had ever dared do to Victarion Greyjoy; struck back and made herself indispensable. As far as Petyr could tell, they were happy together too. Vic still found value in the beautiful woman that warmed his bed and kept his home and whether she simply enjoyed the jewels he adorned her in, or had grown an affection for the man himself, Suge had been a loyal wife in return. 

“Mrs. Greyjoy, your husband is currently awaiting trial for suspicion of conspiracy to murder Illyrio Mopatis, isn’t he?” DA Jace Bywater asked. 

She leaned back in her chair, cutting her eyes up at him. “You know he is.”

“Which makes it absolutely crucial that you answer honestly-”

Suge scoffed. “I haven’t said hardly a word, and already you’re calling me a liar. Some kind of justice you got right there.” She gave a martyred expression over to the jury.

Jace froze in place. Petyr watched the wheels in his head turn, trying to decide whether or not to address her contempt or push on. “I’m sure you understand the importance of everyone’s whereabouts on the night of Mopatis’ murder, which is why I ask you now if you know Petyr Baelish’s whereabouts that night.”

“He was at a party with the rest of us.” She bat her long lashes, her lips set. Somehow, despite all the woman stood to lose if her husband was convicted, she managed to look down her nose at Jace as if he were the most moronic man alive. “And before you ask, I don’t know when he left. He was still at the party when I was getting my coat on to leave.”

Putting Suge on the stand was yielding Jace no gain. Why did he do it? Simply to call the Greyjoys out? To rattle their chain, and remind the rest of the city that they were vulnerable? 

Jace wet his lips and leaned in, as if in anticipation of something groundbreaking. “And did you leave alone, Mrs. Greyjoy?” 

“Objection! He’s forcing witness testimony!” Tarly barked, his round cheeks reddening. “Mrs. Greyjoy is entitled to spousal privilege in her husband’s trial, trying to glean his whereabouts in this trial as a way around that is inappropriate and out of order.” 

“If anything, you’re out of order,” Jace sneered, walking towards Tarly. “Focus on the trial at hand.” He brushed his fingers against the edge of the defense desk, his voice a low hiss meant only for Tarly as he whispered, “ _ You can’t save them all. _ ”

Petyr’s hand went numb, his fist clenching in his lap. Tarly’s own knuckles had gone white as he asked, “Your honor?” 

“Overruled. One trial at a time.” 

Petyr looked for anything that would give the judge away. A wink, a sniff, a tap of his fingers, the slightest of head nods toward Jace. There was nothing--absolutely no indication at all whatsoever that the men were linked in any way. If the judge wasn’t siding with Jace because they were somehow in bed together, then perhaps he had something against Tarly. Again, Petyr scoured the man’s expressions, looking for a lip curl, narrowed eyes, tight jaw, pinched face--anything! Yet again, there was nothing. No grudge or bitterment. 

Was this judge actually impartial? If so, what was his game?!

Suge testified that she left with Vic, and did so honestly. Vic and Petyr may have ordered Illyrio’s hit, but they hadn’t done it themselves. Of course Suge and Vic left together, as did Petyr and Sansa. This was one hundred percent accurate information and Jace could do absolutely nothing about it. After a couple more mundane questions, he finished with her. 

Tarly shuffled through some papers in the folder Barbrey gave him before he started by asking Suge how long she’d known Petyr and Sansa Baelish. It was important that he specified both of them, lest the jury get any idea of something untoward in their acquaintance. Everyone knew of Suge’s history. Any married man meeting a former stripper without their wife present would suffer a blemish on their character that could be deadly in a criminal case. 

The next question was how they met and Suge gave the stock reply she (like all good mob wives) kept ready to give upstanding citizens like Tarly. “At a work function my husband and I attended.”

Jace sighed, taking silent issue with her easy answer. 

“In all the time that you’ve known Mr. and Mrs. Baelish, has Mr. Baelish appeared violent in any way?” The question and it’s accompanying answer would be circumstantial at best, but considering she was married to Victarion Greyjoy, her particular assessment on violence would carry a weight no one wanted to admit, but many would be swayed by.

Petyr glanced to Barbrey, she slid her gaze back, acknowledging that this was very much her play. It was subtle and would resonate, as if there could have been any doubt in the matter. Suge’s voice interrupted their looks. “No.” Suge turned to look at Petyr, her eyes appraising him. He could feel her zero in on the darkness he carried within, and wondered for a moment if she would react to it. Instead, she blinked once, and cool as a cucumber said, “He’s not like that.”

“Thank you,” Tarly smiled. “You said you met Mr. and Mrs. Baelish at a work function. Do you work with your husband?” 

“Not officially.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m not on the payroll, if that’s what you’re asking.” Suge flipped a long silver lock of hair over her shoulder and rubbed her gloss further into her lips. She looked every bit the trophy wife Vic gravitated towards, though Petyr was not fooled. That night in the restaurant told him the woman had a brain and the mettle to used it. “I didn’t marry my boss--nothing so scandalous.” She gave the crowd a wry smile. “I work with my husband as any wife does. By supporting him.” 

Tarly tucked his hands in his pockets and asked, “What kind of business is your husband into?”

“Importing and exporting.” 

Tarly nodded. “And are you aware of any business your husband and Mr. Baelish may have had with Mopatis?” 

Motive. Tarly was going for motive again. Making it clear that there wasn’t one--at least not one they could discern. Suge gladly played right into his hand by saying, “To my knowledge, Vic and Petyr haven’t had any business with Illyrio since before Christmas.” 

“And what, may I ask, were you paying Mr. Mopatis to ship at that time?” Tarly asked, knowing the answer would be one that put Petyr in a favorable light. 

Suge offered a small subdued smile for the cameras. “Factory second cell phones from across the Narrow Sea to donate to area homeless and-” She wet her lips and turned her gaze back to Petyr and Sansa as she finished, “Women’s shelters.” 

And just like that, a tax write off just became the perfect reflection on his character. Were they in any other setting, Petyr would have laughed out loud at the spectacle of it all. Sansa would be sending her something from Tiffany’s, he just knew it.

When it was time for the defense to call their witnesses, Tarly was quick to put Stannis on the stand, using his police commissioner status as a dose of authority to the trial. Tarly inquired as to his relationship with the Baelishes, to which Stannis stayed on script. He boasted about the couple’s various philanthropic endeavors and explained that they often met over dinner to discuss different causes in the city that the Baelishes considered contributing to. 

Tarly asked about his role as police commissioner and about the inner workings of the police department while Jace grew restless in his seat. “Given your position, and the many times you’ve had to sit in on trials and involve yourself in various aspects of investigation, would you say that the way in which Petyr Baelish was arrested was typical?” Tarly asked.

“No,” Stannis said quickly, his head turning to glare at Mel sitting on the prosecution’s side. “I would not say that at all.”

“And why would that be, Mr. Baratheon?” Tarly asked, strolling past the jury, his closeness in proximity stirring the inattentive ones. 

Stannis’ eyes narrowed. “It is odd that the prerequisites for an arrest were determined and a warrant obtained without my ever being made aware.” 

“Would you say the process moved quickly?” Tarly lead him. 

“Definitely.” 

Tarly nodded. “Was there any other aspect to this case that you feel moved quickly?” 

Stannis paused, his lips pursing. It was clear he was running through everything in his head, searching for what Tarly meant. 

“Perhaps the rate at which the lab was able to process the DNA on the knife?” Tarly asked. 

“Objection, he’s leading the witness,” Jace growled from his desk. 

“Sustained.” The judge lifted his glass of water, eyeing Tarly over the rim of it. “Ask your questions directly, Counselor.”

“Apologies,” Tarly said to the judge. Clearing his throat he inhaled and turned back to Stannis. “In your opinion, do you feel as though the lab processed the DNA evidence in this case quickly?” 

Stannis nodded his head once. “Yes.”

“Is it possible that rushed processing can lead to erroneous information?”

“Yes, of course.”

When it was Jace’s turn to cross examine, he cut to the chase. “You mentioned that it was ‘odd’ that the process for detaining Mr. Baelish occurred without you being made aware.” 

Stannis said nothing, tracking his movements with his eyes. 

“Tell us, are you made aware of every arrest warrant that’s authorized?” Jace asked, holding his hands in front of him. 

“For more high profile suspects, yes.” Stannis held his stern expression. 

Jace smiled. “And what exactly makes Mr. Baelish high profile: his philanthropic work, his Forbes report? Or, is it the fact that his name is littered throughout all the organized crime files the FBI has for this city, all the way up until the time you were appointed Commissioner?”

Stannis said nothing. He only stared back at Jace as if he were a petulant child, though the men had to be about the same age. Jace shrugged his shoulders. “No answer?” He looked back to the jury, smiling proudly. “That’s no bother. It was just a matter of opinion anyway, much like every question the defense asked you. All worthless in a court of law.” Jace stepped toward the jury, setting his jaw seriously as he braced himself on the polished wooden railing that divided them from the rest of the room. “You see, innocence and guilt are proven through facts and evidence, not opinion or supposition.”

Tarly had been planting the seed of doubt, and it had been a good play. Petyr had been increasingly confident in the direction of things...until then. “Facts such as,” Jace continued. “The lab’s reported occurrence of errors in the past year. Seventeen, if you’re curious.”

Again, Stannis held his tongue, tracking Jace’s movement. If he could pounce on the man and murder him, Petyr was certain he would. Since the passing of his daughter, Stannis had become much more comfortable with violence and appreciated simple solutions to problems--not that he couldn’t recognize the complexities presented.

“Each one of those errors lead to mistrials.” Jace scowled at Petyr. “All seventeen errors and resulting mistrials involving suspected organized crime members.”

Stannis glanced down at his hands. He was quiet as he admitted, “I’m confused.” 

Jace whirled on him. “Confused? About what, Commissioner Baratheon?”

Stannis smoothed his thumb over his fingernails as if trying to determine whether or not it was time for a trim, never looking up as he explained, “I’m confused as to whether or not you’re trying to point out some crackpot conspiracy theory about the  _ possibility _ of mafia in our city, or if you’re agreeing that the lab could be wrong--invalidating your own case.”

A woman two rows from the back dropped her purse and the entire courtroom could hear it. Jace’s face turned such a pressured shade of red, it was a wonder his head didn’t pop. He was quick to excuse Stannis from the stand after that.

Tarly called a few more witnesses: the valet at the party, Mopatis’ business manager, and even Lothor Brune as he drove them that night. No one testified to seeing Petyr at the docks, aside from Harys Swyft. No one could, however, testify as to where Petyr actually was during the time of the murder. Brune had dropped him off at home before the time of the crime, and there was no lying about that either, what with the computer in the car recording it’s trips. 

“Call me up,” Sansa’s voice slid over Petyr’s shoulder to Tarly. 

“No,” Petyr whispered. He may be under fire, but he would be damned if he put his wife through a testimony. She was his to protect, and he refused to expose her so openly to Jace and his agenda.  

“It’s not a good idea,” Tarly explained. 

Sansa inhaled, frustrated. “I’m the only one who can say where Petyr was. Call me up, now.”

“No. Sansa-”

Unwilling to hear another second of their protest, she stood up and smoothed her palms over her skirt as all eyes in the courtroom turned to her. Petyr pursed his lips, swearing under his breath, fighting the urge to grab her and haul her back down to her seat. 

Equally opposed, but more resigned than emboldened, Tarly sighed. “Your honor, I call Sansa Baelish to the stand.”

“Sure she’s not calling you?” Jace laughed from his table. 

The judge smacked his gavel down. “I’ll have order!” 

Petyr winced as he listened to each Manolo Blahnik click on the hardwood floor, her hips swaying with determination. She reached for the half door before Tarly could open it for her, and climbed the two steps to the witness stand. Sansa placed her hand on the bible and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help her god. 

Shoulders back, chest out, chin lifted, she sat proud. Even with twenty yards of courtroom between them, she stole his breath away. Petyr would have been angry with her if he didn’t know that she believed with everything in her being that her testimony alone would exonerate him. She was just so beautiful, so loyal...so his.

“Are you aware of what Testimonial Privilege is?” Tarly asked. 

“Yes,” Sansa nodded. “And I’m choosing to wave it because I can give you Petyr’s whereabouts at the time Illyrio Mopatis died. He was with me.” 

What she hadn’t said was that they were playing a particularly titillating game of Personal Assistant at the time the men Petyr and Vic hired, killed Mopatis and left him lying dead on the deck of his boat.

Petyr looked over at Barbrey. The woman had curled into herself, holding her forehead with one hand as she kept her head down. She didn’t approve. Neither did Tarly. While Petyr didn’t think Sansa’s testimony would help much, he didn’t think it was a much of an atrocity as his counsel was making it seem. 

Tarly didn’t ask her any further questions, not having any prepared. Jace practically jumped out of his seat, taking large strides over to her. “Are you aware that if you provide false alibi, you’ll be arrested for perjury?”

Sansa’s lips tightened. “Yes.”

“You have two children, not yet the age of eighteen.” Jace beat around the bush, taking way too much pleasure in her presence on the stand. Petyr looked over his shoulder to Jon. He looked just as prone to pounce as he, both of them so protective of her. 

“Weren’t you orphaned when you were about your children’s age?” Jace insulted her with his research, research that Petyr himself had conducted so many years ago when she belonged to another. 

“Objection!” Tarly called out. “He’s threatening the witness.”

Petyr blinked at that, surprised. He turned to inspect Jace closer. The glimmer in his eye suggested that he was most certainly threatening Sansa. Petyr ran his words over in his head ahead. 

Rage burned hit inside as he finally realized the threat in his question. Hatred filled in all the gaps his anger hadn’t yet touched, as he noted how easily he’d missed that. Sansa was distracting him with her very presence. He was off his game, too busy watching the love of his life fight to bring him home. 

Jace hid a smile. “I was merely ensuring that the witness understood the severity of perjury.” He looked far off to a side door in the courtroom, his gaze intent. Petyr followed his eyes, turning his head only slightly to catch a look at what interested the man so. Inky black hair and soft blue eyes hit him in the heart. Elenei. Petyr looked to either side of her, spotting Durran instantly. They were wearing street clothes, rather than their sunday best, and blended in with the crowd around them. His eyes shot back to Sansa’s, praying she didn’t see them. 

If she did, she didn’t reveal it, her mask firmly in place. She stared back at Jace, awaiting his next question. “What provoked you to risk so much?” 

“I risk nothing by telling the truth,” Sansa replied. It was easy for her to feel so strong in her convictions because she wasn’t lying. Petyr had not met with Vic at the docks, and neither had he stabbed Mopatis with his own blade. He and Vic shared a drink and waved a man over, ordered the hit on Mopatis and then both retired from the party. They went home to fuck their wives and fall asleep shortly after. Petyr’s hands were clean, and Sansa’s testimony was true. 

Appreciating that she was a tough egg to crack, Jace changed tactics. “You must have a lot of faith in your husband, must think quite highly of him.” 

Sansa’s face was impassive, too smart to be lead around by Jace’s showmanship. He would not falter in his step so easily, instead going right for the jugular. “Which is a far cry from how you felt about him some years back when you petitioned for divorce, citing irreconcilable differences.” 

Petyr’s head turned, his eyes shooting to his children. They both stood stock-still with dumbfounded expressions. Durran’s green eyes shone bright, suddenly glossy. A hushed whisper spread throughout the courtroom as members from every family either reminisced over their separation, or inquired about it amongst themselves. Petyr watched the wheels turn in his daughter’s head, searching through her memories, piecing together the truth they’d shielded her from. The tears that rolled down her cheeks told him she’d made all the connections. She knew now that Mummy hadn’t been away for work exactly fifty percent of the time, and neither had her parents slept in separate bedrooms for a short while because of their snoring. 

Fuck. 

His heart ached to see his happy family so weathered, and he wanted nothing more than to comfort his children, to hug them close and tell them that it was all alright. Mum and Dad had worked everything out and had been devoted to each other every minute of the past twelve years since their horrendous separation. His ass had barely lifted from the seat before he felt a hand grip his shoulder pushing him down. His gaze followed the arm it belonged to, all the way up to Jon’s sympathetic expression, silently reminding him that he was helpless. He couldn’t go to his children any more than he could storm over to the witness stand and pluck his wife from it.

Turning back to Sansa, he noticed that while her head had not moved, her eyes were no longer on Jace. There was an edge to her voice as she spoke. “I’m not here to discuss the _ impulsive  _ decisions-”

A pain shot through Petyr’s heart, knowing she was purposefully taking blame for a time in their marriage that they were both at fault. She was throwing herself in the line of fire to save him and he fought to swallow the growing lump in his throat because of it. He stared back into her eyes, silently telling her that it wasn’t her fault, praying she understood how much he appreciated every ounce of her being. 

“I made over a decade ago,” she finished. Petyr recognized the murder in her eyes as she stared directly into Jace’s. “I’m here to share my husband’s whereabouts at the time of Illyrio Mopatis’ death.” 

It was the most riled he’d seen her during the trial, and Petyr knew it could only be attributed to their children. Somehow she’d seen her babies hiding off to the side, their hearts breaking over their parents secrets. So many times they had laid in bed together, in the late hours of the night, wondering whether or not to ever share the hardest time of their marriage with them. Each time they snuggled close and resolved not to, deciding it best not to druge up things that no longer mattered. As parents, it was their right to save their children from unnecessary pains. 

Jace trampled all over that right, ripping the rosey pink shades of naivety off their children’s faces. Petyr could kill him for that, and he was certain Sansa would. No one ever hurt her cubs. 

When she was freed from the stand, Petyr slid his hand out, letting his fingertips brush her leg as she passed. It was discreet and definitely not enough, but he needed to touch her, to comfort and be comforted by the feel of her. She would make this right with their children, and when he got home, he would help to put their minds at ease. 

When Tarly called Petyr to the stand, he stayed on script, asking his whereabouts and about the blade. Petyr used the honesty he shared about being with Sansa to bleed over and make his dishonesty about the blade sound more convincing. It was a trick he’d learned in his youth; tell as much truth as you can to sneak the smallest lies past. 

Upon inquiry regarding his relationship with Mopatis, Petyr remained professional, acting as if he was acquainted with the man as little as many honest businessmen were with their shippers. He certainly didn’t divulge that he’d had the man followed for months and knew how he ordered his eggs in the morning. Tarly’s questioning was quick and to the point, not much needing to be said after the slew of witnesses had already revealed so much. 

Jace started his questioning in a strange place, skipping right to the lab. “Were you aware that the lab’s errors, leading to mistrials, all have involved persons somehow related to the Baelish family?”

Petyr forced himself to shrug nonchalant, masking the hate he felt for the very sound of the man’s voice. “You had alluded to that, and I am not very surprised to hear it.”

Jace blinked back at him, surprised by the careless way in which Petyr responded. “You’re not?”

Petyr smirked. It felt good to knock that asshole off his step. “Ever watch that movie Six Degrees of Separation?” Petyr asked, a slight dimple pressing in his cheek. It wasn’t a happy smile--his little family so wounded. “Everyone’s connected to everyone if you look far enough down the line.”

“So you’d claim coincidence?” Jace’s tone turned sarcastic. “How convenient.”

“You yourself are claiming coincidence,” Petyr accused, unable to resist. 

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.” Jace waved his hand, his smile showing his pleasure at the momentary lapse of judgement on Petyr’s part. “Please, explain.” 

Tarly flashed Petyr a warning look. It was best to stifle himself, feign ignorance and step off the stand as quickly as possible. His eyes trailed to where his children had been, the spot now vacant. Had they run off distraught? The mollified looks on their young faces guaranteed they did, prickling Petyr’s resentment. The words were out of his mouth before he could think twice to stop them. “As Commissioner Baratheon pointed out, my arrest warrant came awfully fast…” He managed to quiet the added thought of,  _ and without any warning. _

His gaze turned to Tarly, catching Barbrey’s hairy eyeball in his periphery, silently telling him to shut up. Too angered by the hardships his family had been forced to face, Petyr gave a sick smile as he said, “And as my attorney has so expertly pointed out--since we’re discussing the lab, my results have come back fast. Suspiciously so.” 

Tarly hung his head, Barbrey glaring beside him. Sansa sat up straight, her cheeks dimpling at his display of dominance. Empowered by her approval, he snapped, “You claim Vic and I worked together to kill a man, yet you’ve not included Vic in this trial.” Not stopping there, Petyr pressed on, “You put all your attention on me and my personal connections. Shame my family by broadcasting a more trying time in my marriage. Threaten my wife with her freedom and our children…” His voice had raised, and while he wasn’t outright yelling, he was much closer to doing so than he had meant. He was breathing heavy, his face flushed in the rage that was filling him. “Would you call that a coincidence or personal vendetta?” 

“Objection,” Tarly said, his voice suddenly so weak, it sounded more like a question rather than declaration. “I move to have my client’s statement stricken from the record.”

“No.” Jace shook his head. “Leave it on the record. It’s important that the good people of the jury are reminded of Mr. Baelish’s true character.” 

“Overruled. The statement stays.” 

Jace gave Petyr a face-splitting grin as he said, “No further questions.” 

Petyr felt the ground unsteady beneath his feet as he stepped down. He’d lost his head at the worst possible time, and who knew what it would mean. His eyes found Sansa’s and followed them, letting them lead him back to his seat--back to her. Barbrey rasped, “You just cost yourself this trial,” as he passed by.

The defeated look on Tarly’s face stole any hope he may have had that she was wrong. Petyr paused in front of his seat, soaking in a long look at his wife while he could. Her eyes sparkled for him, her cheeks soft and slightly dimpled, her smile warm and inviting. What he wouldn’t give to sit with her, rather than in front of her. 

Jace’s closing statement was much like his presentation, all over the place and littered with bias against Petyr and everything he stood for. “The very fact that he used the Police Commissioner as a character witness speaks volumes of the corruption that surrounds Petyr Baelish.” He coached the jury not to be intimidated by a man like Petyr, promising them that, “Only by working together and standing up against crime can we make the world safer.” Jace outright pointed at Petyr and Tarly as he said that they had attempted to ‘insinuate’ that the lab results couldn’t be trusted but that, “The facts remain: a witness saw a pair of men matching Greyjoy and Baelish’s description, no one but his wife can claim to know his whereabouts at the time of the murder, and the fingerprints on the blade belong to Petyr Baelish.” He wrapped his closing statement up in a bow by holding his arms open and conceitedly asking, “What more evidence need there be?”

Tarly’s closing statement told the story of an innocent man, made the target of an ambitious DA trying to make a name for himself by framing him for organized crime. Tarly had said back when they were preparing for the trial that he didn’t want to go this route, saying that juries never sided with victims if they were as rich and powerful as Petyr. Though, it seemed as though after Petyr’s statement, Tarly hadn’t much choice. 

He was sure to point out the unreliable lab testing, “The DA himself recognized seventeen errors… That’s far from insinuation.” Tarly then jumped to the fact that no one recognized the blade to be Petyr’s, yet the prosecution still touted on as if it was. “You all heard from numerous individuals that Mr. Baelish hadn’t even had a reason to be on a dock in the first place, let alone one for murdering a man he hadn’t seen since before Christmas.” Tarly shook his head and smiled as if the possibility that a man of Petyr’s standing, one that gave back to the community, could even be considered guilty was absurd.

The court adjourned for the jury to sequester themselves away, free to deliberate over Petyr’s guilt. The weight of it all settled on his shoulders, holding him down in his seat as surely as Jon’s hands had earlier. All the rustling around the courtroom allowed enough distraction for Sansa to reach over the divider and affectionately brush the back of his neck. No longer caring for their audience, he turned to catch her hand in his, kissing her open palm as he gazed into her eyes.

There were no words. None that either could offer the other to lessen their worry or their pain. There was only a gnawing need for time to freeze and save them the eventuality of a verdict.

 

 

 


	7. All Along the Watchtower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was no loyalty. Not here. Not yet.

“Offenders! Line up!”

The barked order was simple and direct and everything Petyr ever remembered coming from a man in uniform armed with little more than a taser and a lopsided sense of righteousness. 

A plastic bin was thrown at his feet by a female officer with a thicker beard than some of the men he stood in line with. “You will disrobe and place your clothes in the bins at your feet.” 

Exam gloves snapped over wrists as the two guards took the line from either end, insisting each person kneel and open their mouths before they moved on to the next guy. They were looking for contraband, and judging by the way one guard ordered a squirrely looking man to step forward, they’d found some. 

Petyr was clean, and he would remain so. He could have made a killing in jail if he went in dirty, knew that well enough, but he refused to give them anymore ammunition against him. As it was, he’d barely stopped Sansa from adding fuel to the fire at the trial before it was too late. 

The verdict thundered through the courtroom, “ _ Guilty _ .”

Barbrey looked away in shame and Tarly stared ahead in frustration. Hot pulsing rage radiated off Sansa behind him, and he felt ice chill his veins as he replayed the verdict in his head.

The tension was thick in the air, people on both sides wondering what happened next. Some took a false sense of security and cheered, while others stood, scowling and uttering hushed growls to either side of them. It would have been smart to catalogue each response to wield against them later, but thoughts of his children somewhere in the courthouse stole his entire attention. How was he to explain that not only had an untouchable just been touched, but for all intents and purposes, he’d been fucked--dry.

Petyr held his arms out, hardly aware that he was complying so calmly, though not entirely surprised that his self-preservation had kicked in so automatically. It was then that a flicker of red in the corner of his eye made him glance over.

Sansa.

She’d come out from around the divider, her eyes trained on Jace standing before them as she stepped forward. Blind hatred had taken over, chasing away all rational thought. Sansa loathed to lose, and she’d lost so much with just one word. She’d been humiliated, drug over the coals in front of their children, her husband sentenced. It wasn’t a level of disrespect she tolerated, and the rash decision to lash out would be her undoing. 

Before they could latch the cuffs, Petyr lifted his wrists out of them and caught her arm. Feeling the blade up her sleeve, he yanked her back towards him. The sudden move sent her whirling around to face him, completely caught up in his arms. His mouth descended on hers as he lifted her wrist, pinning it between them to force the blade further back up her sleeve.

To anyone looking, they were two lovers desperate to prolong their separation. And while they were, he was trying to prevent a grave mistake. Turning his head, he broke from her just long enough to whisper, “Don’t.” 

She shook her head against him, tearing away from his kiss to breath, “I won’t let them-”

He cut her off, quick to quiet her with his lips again. She was losing her head, her judgement so skewed by her love for him. It was flattering and frightening all at the same time. Since he’d known her, he could count on one hand how many times she allowed a hair out of place in front of others. For her to behave so reckless now in the face of losing him, was such a heartfelt declaration of love. 

While he appreciated her devotion, he needed more. He needed to know that she would still manage their business, that the ship wouldn’t sink in his absence. If he’d been asked a week prior, he would have denied any doubts regarding her ability to rule in his stead. Now, however, with the trial...her determination to sit on the stand, to attack Jace in full view… 

“Too many witnesses,” he whispered, forcing the lecture from his voice. 

“Baelish!” The guard behind him ordered. “It’s time.”

“I know,” she breathed. “I just…”

She had vowed to never be kept apart from him, and at one point in time she’d broken that vow. When they’d reconciled, the ferocity with which she was determined to uphold that promise was renewed, and Petyr wondered if there were any length she wouldn’t go to. Had she lost all limits? 

Fuck if he hadn’t. 

It took everything he had not to snap his fingers to call arms in the crowd and massacre the courthouse to keep from being separated from his family. That would have been quite the scandal to cover, poor Stannis would definitely have his work cut out for him. That was assuming that people actually jumped for him. Seeing the way Jace had turned the tables on him, Petyr was seriously starting to wonder where loyalties truly lay. 

Thinking of his children again, unsure of where they’d snuck off to, a hail of gunfire was the last thing he wanted to compromise their safety with. Panic was allowing the irrational to run rampant inside him and he needed to pull it together.  

“I know,” he forgave, resting his forehead against hers, inhaling her scent one last time. 

The rest was a blur. The faces that he’d passed, the clink of the cuffs and the rap of the chain connecting him from wrist to ankle--all somehow deep underwater and far out of reach. His consciousness barely registered the transport van he’d been stuffed into. Petyr had only really realized the vehicle had stopped when the doors opened on a slim, sinewy man in his fifties with black eyes and hair, streaked silver. The first words out of his mouth were, “My name is, Officer Thorne. You’ve officially lost your right to a name, and will be referred to from here on out as, “ _ Offender _ .” 

Petyr said nothing in reply, the tone already set. 

Throwing his suit in the bin, he glanced suspiciously around him before he unclasped his watch and set it gently on top of the pile. It was anyone’s guess which guard would be kifing that at the first given opportunity.

“All your personal effects, Offender!” Thorne barked at Petyr. 

Refusing to rile, he raised an eyebrow back at him. 

Thorne reached forward and gripped the chain around Petyr’s neck. He’d forgotten it was there, so used to wearing it. It hadn’t been taken off in years, worn each day, never bothing to take it off in the shower, or to bed. Sansa liked playing with it from time to time while they talked, running her fingers through his chest hair, rubbing her thumb back and forth over his scar before mindlessly plucking at the pendant.

She’d gotten it for him a couple years after Durran was born, smiling as she straddled his lap and clasped it behind his head. Petyr remembered staring at her lips inches from his as she said, “Leonard Noblac.”

He’d heard the name before but couldn’t place it. “And he is?” Petyr asked, rubbing her back, letting the motion shove her breasts further against his chest. 

Her finger tapped the tiny oval pendant hanging from the platinum chain. “The patron saint of criminals.”

“Clever,” he praised on a chuckle. 

“Think your faith will protect you in here?” Thorne rasped, ruining the memory. 

Petyr inhaled, banking his fire. 

“Hmm?” Thorne leaned in, purposefully whispering loud enough to be heard. “It won’t. Best take it off now before someone chokes you with it while they fuck your white-collar ass.”

His cracked and weathered fist yarded back on the chain, snapping it. Tossing it in the bin, Thorne moved on to the next man, though not before carelessly tossing over his shoulder, “I just did you a favor.” 

Petyr’s eye twitched as he stared down at the broken token of his wife’s affection. Fuming, he vowed he would see it returned to him--in pristine condition--or Officer Thorne’s blue collar ass would understand the meaning of a gangbang. 

Vibrating with anger, Petyr stepped forward, keeping his place in line as they walked them to the next room. Vinyl letters across the frosted and wired window read,  _ Medical _ . White coats with gloves and face masks waited with clipboards. The room was partitioned into stations, and each ‘offender’ was lead to one, wherein an onslaught of questions were asked and boxes checked. 

“Hey!” One man exclaimed. “Does it look like a tit to you? No? So stop feeling it up like it’s one.”

“Sir, please sit down. I must finish my exam,” the assistant said, sounding drained at the end of a long day. 

“Will you look at this? This fucker’s feeling me up!” The guy laughed, making a spectacle of the situation. “Do I look queer to you?”

Petyr watched, waiting to see how long it would take for Thorne to interfere. It looked like the assistant had been giving him a male breast exam as part of the physical. Prison staff seemed to be more thorough than his own primary care physician. So this was where his tax dollars went? 

“Not especially,” Thorne was quick to respond. “But I’m sure you’ll make a pretty bitch to someone soon if you keep squealing like one.”

Thorne whipped his head around to level Petyr with a hateful look. “Stop eyeballing me or I’ll teach you to blink!” 

Petyr narrowed his gaze at him, defiantly staring back for as long as he could before he made it a point to close his eyes and open them in the slowest most purposeful blink he could manage. 

“At least you know enough to keep your mouth shut, I’ll give you that,” Thorne assessed. He glared at Petyr a moment longer before he hollered, “Once you’re all cleared in medical, we’ll begin your orientation to this fine facility you all have the privilege of calling home for the duration of your sentences.” 

True to his word, an hour and a half later, they were shuffled into a large concrete room with a bed in it and some tables. Of course, this wasn’t before Petyr learned the man sitting in the station to his left had HPV and couldn’t feel two fingers on his right hand since he’d fallen off his bike as a kid. Too much information had been shared in such close quarters and Petyr had considered himself lucky he’d only been diagnosed with occasional acid reflux and seasonal allergies. 

“You will each be given a job. You will earn credits from that job for your commissary funds.” Thorne strolled along the line of them. “Commissary funds can be used to buy you things like toothpaste and cigarettes.” 

Petyr knew the drill and hardly paid Thorne attention when he added, “You may also guilt your loved ones into placing funds on your commissary at any time of your choosing-” He paused to give them all a pointed look. “As you are all so quick to do--always taking the easy way out.”

The chip in this guys shoulder was monumental. Petyr eyed the men around him, taking in all their identifying features: cauliflowered ears, scars under eyes, weak chins, and a plethora of tattoos advertising street names--past and present gangs. Thorne could yammer on until the cows came home; it was time to get down to business. People survived when they had bodies to shield themselves with.

They stood silent, listening to Thorne belt out, “All of you think you’re the baddest of the bad, but in here you’re nothing!” 

They needn’t open their mouths for Petyr to read their tells, it all so utterly predictable. Wide eyes meant it was most likely their first time in the can. Tight jaws and puckered asses, said they’d ridden in this rodeo before, most likely playing bottom through it. Smirks and snickers came from career prisoners, only ever reaching their full potential behind a set of bars, punching license plates and faces alike. 

It had been many years since Petyr had been in this position, but it was all coming back to him. As if fitting into a pair of old gloves, he braced himself for the snug fit, only to find himself relaxing into the feeling, completely broken in. Sniffing the air, he let the scent of concrete and stainless steel, remind him of his priorities. As much as he missed his family, he would not survive if they were first and foremost in his mind. People here thought only about themselves, it was time to be a taker again.

Petyr had no use for the first timers, but would take a sixty-forty split between alphas and bitches any day. Alphas kept the order and bitches bought him the goods. He knew to keep the deck stacked for high cards, refusing to let a pile of torn asses stand as the only barrier between him and opposition. It was time to focus on creating his crew. 

He had begun reading the tattoos on each man, determining where they came from and what connections he could call upon, when a guard stepped into his field of view. Reaching down to rip a ring off his hand, he whispered, “Give me your ring.” 

Petyr stared back at him, wondering what he was talking about. He’d discarded all his rings in the bin, all but his wedding band, and that would have to be pried off his cold dead hand. Never once in the nineteen-point-five years of marriage he and Sansa shared, had he ever been without that ring on his finger.

“Tanner! What are you doing?” Thorne barked.

Quickly, the guard shoved his wedding band into Petyr’s palm, panic passing over his eyes. “Just checking his wedding ring.” 

Thorne sighed, audibly. “Just take it from him.” His gaze roamed all the men before him. “Trust me, the less personal attachments people know about, the better. You’d be doing him a favor to let them think he’s got no wife at home.”

One man chuckled, and then quickly stifled it. 

“Something funny?” Thorne growled. 

Petyr fisted the ring in his hand. The line stood silent. 

That was, until a particularly seasoned man, just aching to spend his first day in the hole spoke up, “That’s fucking Littlefinger. Everyone knows he got himself a bad bitch at home.”

Oddly complimented, Petyr smirked at Thorne. Who in turn, grit his teeth and said, “That’s a shame. Hard to protect your loved ones from inside.” He glanced over to his man. “Still, a rule’s a rule.”

Not taking his eyes off of Petyr, Tanner stared at him meaningfully as he said, “I think it’s cheap enough.”

Instantly, Petyr understood. It was prison rules--only wedding bands could be worn, and only if they were valued at under a hundred dollars. Giving the guard a warning glare, Petyr slipped the ring off his finger and replaced it with the guards. 

“I doubt that,” Thorne argued. “If the  _ offender  _ is really as important as they say he is, he’d-a spent a damn sight more on his  _ bling _ than your average fuck-up.”

Taking Petyr’s ring to quickly slide on his own finger, the guard shrugged nonchalant and said, “Take a look for yourself. Must’a spent all the cash on his girl’s ring instead.”

Feeling suddenly so bare, coupled with seeing his ring decorate another man’s finger, had Petyr practically foaming at the mouth. Luckily, he knew best how to swallow it back and wait for the proper time and place.  

Thorne accepted Tanner’s invitation, strolling up close to them. His gaze dropped down to Petyr’s hand, and the plain white gold band on it. He said nothing, though hatred rolled off him in waves, crashing into all that stood too near.

Careful not to move a muscle, Petyr rolled his eyes up at him to look from just beneath his lids, waiting to be called on the lie. He knew that even the slightest hint of anxiety over the possibility would play him straight into that hand. Tanner closed his mouth and stood firm, showing himself good for his part in the facade.

After an elongated pause, Thorne nodded to Tanner and turned away. “Fish Tank’s up next!” 

The Fish Tank was the large general population unit where guards dropped off new convicts and left them for a month or so while they processed their paperwork and sorted out where they were going to put them long term. What a social worker may have thought was a gentle ease into cellblock life, really just drove men crazy. Heavy hitters housed with the more squirrelly types were crammed into one large open floor plan, while guards like Thorne picked out jobs for everyone that would pay a whopping ten cents an hour.

The idea of being trapped there for so long as a month, had his heart aching for his family. Petyr wanted to believe it wouldn’t be that long, that he’d always been above the law before and somehow, within the next day or so he’d be pardoned. The call would come in the night, or a helpful guard like Tanner would slip him a key when no one was looking. He knew it was the stuff of fantasies, but a part of himself couldn’t help but dream. 

He would need to close that off if he was going to survive. No more Elenei and Durran, no more Sansa. His only escape plan was an appeal and he knew Tarly was working hard on that. Petyr could only help by keeping his head screwed on and surviving the Fish Tank. He’d seen this fox-in-the-henhouse approach enough times to know it was effective at weeding out the men meant for the psych ward. It worked best for him to keep a low profile, letting them shiv and shank each other while he fucked their brains into submission, until he was shuffled on to what would be his new home until the appeal went through. 

Desperate to retain at least some small part of the life he’d worked so hard for, and cherished so much, he was quick to remove the hunk of cheap metal from his finger. “Ring?” He hissed at the guard. 

Thorne looked back at them as he directed the line of inmates, suspicion an easy read in his wrinkles.

Tanner gripped him by the elbow and steered him for the door. “Not now. Too many eyes.”

Petyr tensed, displeased with that answer. 

“First chance I get,” he promised. 

Eyeing him up and down, Petyr looked for anything he could use against him if necessary. There was nothing so obvious as a bum knee or a picture of his children hanging from his ring of keys, but Petyr would find whatever it was and exploit it if his ring wasn’t on his finger by the time he woke up in the morning. He consoled himself that this guy obviously feared or respected him enough to save him his wedding band from Thorne in the first place--he wouldn’t now deny him it. 

Unless he wanted something. 

People always wanted something. 

There was no loyalty. Not here. Not yet. 

Men would come out of the woodwork once he was assigned to a block. Knowing Karhold Correctional and some of the men he’d seen arrested over the years, it would be a good mix. People he’d cut a deal to get rid of, and men he’d set up for life in exchange for some time. He’d always taken care of the families--Sansa made sure of it. Not that he wouldn’t have anyway, but her insistence made it a priority. That fact alone should have bought him protection right off. That was of course, providing their minds hadn’t soured over the years and forced them to forget how well he’d made on his word. 

Taking in the large open space colored in varying shades of grey and steel, he focused on the men already there and settled, comparing them against the new cons. Petyr read,  _ Bone Collector _ , tattooed prominently across one man’s back. Beneath it was a symbol for the Wilding Biker Gang, two thick scars in the shape of an X crossed it out. The man had been exiled. It was time to pick up some protection. Petyr began scanning the crowd for a target, deciding that the first underweight, pasty-faced ginger he saw would do.       

Take or leave the Wildlings, one thing well-known about them was how little they tolerated child abuse. They were savage enough chain a man to their bikes and draw and quarter him, leaving the pieces to rot in the woods, but let no man raise a hand to a child. 

Not wasting any time, Petyr leaned into the Bone Collector as they walked further into The Tank. “Jesus, is that Denys Redwyne?”

The biker grunted, “What of it?” 

“You didn’t hear?” Petyr asked behind a mask of incredulity. 

“Hear what?”

Sucking air through his teeth, Petyr winced dramatically. “Picked up outside the Uplands. They say he raped an eight year old…” 

Bone Collector cracked his neck, and clenched his fist. His nostrils flared as he asked, “Oh he did, did he?”

“Mm,” Petyr confirmed. “I thought they had a special wing for sick freaks like him, where they all shaved their balls and fucked each other freely.” He watched the anger creep up the man’s neck with each bulging vein. “Maybe after the Fish Tank…”

“ _ If _ he makes it out of the Fish Tank.” 

Petyr hid a smirk as he watched the exile make for who may or may not have actually been Denys Redwyne. It wasn’t as if it mattered whether or not he was. The only person in all of Westeros who would have cared enough to feel affronted for that little throwback was Olenna, and it had been many years since Olenna Tyrell was a thought in anyone’s head. 

Accompanying the sick thud and crunch of a meaty fist crashing into the ginger’s face was the hollered words, “ _ Fuckin’ baby-toucher! _ ” 

Petyr watched to see who would rise to the man’s defense. When no one moved a muscle despite the man’s screaming and squealing, Petyr glanced up to the fenced-in landing. A line of guards stood at the ready, Thorne holding his hand up to stall them. There was no pleasured expression on his face as he allowed the violence to continue. Instead, the man only seemed more disappointed in humanity. 

Blood splattered on a whimper and a pack of cigarettes fell out of the man’s pocket. Petyr glanced to either side of him before reaching out with his foot to slide the pack closer. Crouching down to pick it up, he heard Thorne finally call out, “Enough!” 

Boots clomped down the metal grate stairs, barked orders to, “Break it up!” fast following. Bone Collector was restrained and escorted off for further correction while the ginger was dragged--blood trailing behind him--to medical. 

“Count!” Thorne yelled. 

Petyr and the other newcomers watched men shift and move, filtering out of the large common area to find their bunks. “Frey and Stone! This way!” Tanner called out, pointing which bunks were empty.

“Baelish!” 

Every set of eyes in the Fish Tank stared back at him, surprised to see their suspicions confirmed. “Over here,” Tanner pointed. “You’re rooming with Pyke.” 

Leisurely strolling towards the cell Tanner assigned him, Petyr eyed the man he was to be sharing a cell with. Dull brown eyes and cowlicked hair kept cropped short to his head, left him looking unremarkable. The broken nose, on the other hand, gave him a touch more character. He was quiet, so it wasn’t likely he’d gotten popped in the face for mouthing off. Though, perhaps he had, and he’d simply been a quick study about it. 

Petyr resisted the urge to ask, and instead turned to claim a bunk. He laid back on it and stared at the ceiling, the wheels in his head turning for the ones he loved, and the ones he needed to maneuver. Victarion would be joining him soon enough--there was no way he’d be found innocent when Petyr wasn’t. He would have more answers then, when he could better feel the man out. 

“Hey.”

Petyr pursed his lips and exhaled through his nostrils, willfully ignoring the man, Pyke. 

“Hey,” he insisted. “You got the wrong bunk.”

There was no muscle around to do Petyr’s bidding and a quick glance at the guy proved him to be younger and better built. “Fuck off.”

He stepped closer. “Trust me, man. You got the wrong bunk.” 

Petyr didn’t want an altercation, but he couldn’t allow himself be walked on either. Pulling two cigarettes from the pack he’d been holding, he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Cotter,” he answered, his brow furrowing, no doubt wondering why Petyr would bother asking. 

“Well, Cotter, I sleep wherever the fuck I choose to.” He popped one in his mouth and offered the other over. “Don’t I?” 

It had been many years since Petyr had smoked, but he was confident he’d kick the habit once he got out, just as he had in the past. Cigarettes were currency and Petyr appreciated the importance of wealth. 

Cotter Pyke took the cigarette offered. “Fine. Sleep wherever you like. Just get your shit out from under my pillow then.”

Petyr cocked an eyebrow at him in question. To which, Cotter replied by reaching under the pillow on his bunk and holding up a small ring that Petyr instantly recognized to be his. His gaze shot to the bars, making sure Thorne wasn’t looking as he snatched it out of the man’s hand. He slid it on his finger and felt suddenly so much more at peace for it. 

His roomate settled into his bunk and said nothing, not even when Petyr slipped him two more cigarettes in appreciation. Finally after a couple seconds, Petyr asked, “What are you in for?” 

There was a pause before Cotter changed the subject, “I wish they’d let us light up in here.” 

“Yeah,” Petyr agreed. 

Tanner approached the bars, winking to Petyr as he counted off. The guard’s kindness lead Petyr to question his motives and he decided that the first opportunity he had to look into his background he would. He’d use a phone call to put Varys on it. 

No, he wouldn’t. 

He’d call Sansa and he was a fool if he thought he wouldn’t. 

“Lights out!” The call echoed through the unit and all at once the overhead lights in the cells went out. 

It was quiet and Petyr wondered at how quickly everyone settled. 

“I got a bit rowdy in a riot and the man I hit didn’t make it,” Cotter admitted in the darkness.

“That’s unfortunate,” Petyr commiserated. “So this isn’t your first time in?” It was a leading question, one that usually encouraged a more detailed history. It was helpful to know where people had done time and how long. 

“No, it is.” 

Petyr didn’t understand. He’d been processed alongside him. He’d stepped foot in this prison at the same time Petyr had. There was no way it could be his first time ever in the can. 

“I was a guard.”

Petyr was grateful for the darkness concealing his ear-to-ear grin. He felt fortunate to find that his new roommate would prove to be quite useful. Guards passed by in the hall, the caged in clock reading 9:30PM. With nothing major on the agenda, a boring Tuesday night, Sansa was probably curled up in bed. Her legs would be slick with lotion as she fell asleep to the television. Would she have piled his pillows beside her to stand in for him? Or would she accept the emptiness as he was forced to?

 

 


	8. Nights in White Satin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His scent had left the sheets a week ago.

Sansa sat back in the pool lounger, pressure forming in the back of her throat. Refusing to cry, she pulled a cigarette from the pack on the table beside her and popped it between her lips.

 _They are fucking driving me crazy,_ Arya texted.

Knowing she could only be referring to her children, Sansa’s thumbs snapped back impatiently, _Then stop having them_.

Shit.

She hadn’t meant to say that, and especially not in a text. Staring down at the screen, seeing no response on its way, she sighed and set her phone in her lap. Her arm reached for the lighter she’d recently bought and then stopped mid-air when she felt her phone vibrate. It was Rickon calling. Lacking the energy to even pretend to carry on a conversation, she ignored it. Immediately after it stopped vibrating, a text message read, _You should apologize to Arya. Laney too._

Sansa had snapped at Elenei earlier, hurt and hopeless over the verdict. She never should have been at the courthouse. Neither of them should have. The best counsel money could buy had said to leave the kiddies at home, and she’d made it quite clear that they would be following counsel strictly--anything to bring Daddy home. What had they done? Disregarded the words of the only people capable of freeing him, and cost them the whole damn case. Jace was only too pleased to use them against her, and though she knew now it was futile for her to step on the stand, seeing how easily he used her family to cripple her testimony, she regretted her decision even more.

 _I know_ , she typed back because there was no reason to get into a family feud and she wasn’t sure she had the stamina to win one anyway.

He sent another text reading, _We all miss him, but he wouldn’t want us at each other._

Before she could respond horribly, her phone rang in her hand and she wondered if she’d ever be able to light the cigarette she’d been holding between her lips. It was of course, Arya. Needing the family interactions to end she answered, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s just…” Arya sighed into the phone. “I know, okay.”

“Know what?” Sansa asked.

Arya huffed. “I know I’m a shit mom.”

Sansa closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “No one said that,” she argued, mainly because she didn’t want her sister to believe it. Even if it was true. Being a mom was a hard, and impossible job. Believing you were a terrible parent was a part of it, but having that feeling validated was a level of cruelty Sansa didn’t have in her. Not for her baby sister, anyway.

Arya started to say something and Sansa cut her off, determined to smooth things over so she could end the conversation already. “You’re not a shit mom, you’ve just got a lot of kids. And they stress you out so much that I sometimes wonder why you keep having them. That’s all.”

Silence followed for the count of four, and then Arya’s voice grew quiet. “It’s Bronn.”

“What about him?” As far as Sansa knew, their relationship had passed into more of an ongoing adoration from afar. Gendry had taken center stage and Bronn had kept to the periphery, popping in from time to time to check in on them and the kids. He’d gotten older, less tolerant of the turbulent nature of his relationship with Arya over the years. They still loved and respected each other, but the romance in their relationship had dwindled over time. Arya had Gendry still and Bronn was always looking out for them, so Sansa didn’t feel as much of the loss for her.

“He came to see the kids and…” Her voice trailed off on a sigh. “When we get together, my brain goes right out the fucking window.”

She wanted to ask about Gendry, but she knew better. Arya’s little family was accustomed to this dance and the only people who ever seemed to have a problem with it always lived on the outside looking in. “You think this one’s his? Thought you two had enough of each other.”

“Yeah…” Arya paused. Sansa took the cigarette from her mouth and watched the water in her pool cycle, tiny waves lapping against the sides. “I don’t know if we ever will.”

Silence passed because Sansa had nothing to say to that. What was there? Arya loved two men, and would probably never stop. Sansa loved just one--in all her life. And he was gone.

“I’m sorry about Petyr,” Arya said.

“Me too.”

Another couple of seconds passed before Arya added, “I’m gonna keep the kids home, okay? For a while.”

“It’s fine,” Sansa replied because she had been so used to saying it was.

“No. It’s not.” Arya drew a deep breath. “Petyr’s not there to help out and they’re my kids. I gotta figure this mom-shit out…”

Sansa bit back the urge to remind her that Gunar was eleven--the time to ‘figure this mom-shit out’ had long passed. Petyr would have pointed out that at least she’d decided to try and that was a huge step. He was always so patient.

Tears stung the back of her eyes and she furiously blinked them back, thankful to see Varys walking toward her. He hadn’t been her favorite person, but any excuse to get off the phone with Arya right then would do. “I’ve got to go. Varys is here.”

“Okay, Sans. Call me anytime, okay? I’ll be there in a heartbeat. You know that right?” She was trying to be the strong support Sansa needed, but it simply wasn’t the same as having Petyr by her side. The woman couldn’t manage her own life, how could she possibly help Sansa now?

Drawing a deep breath, she ended the call and set her phone on the table beside her. Dispensing with the niceties, she got right to the point. “You shouldn’t have come between us.”

“I most certainly should have,” he disagreed. He hadn’t raised his voice or scowl, only kept his calm in the line of her fire. “Her father is in jail, and you were attacking her.”

He made it sound as if the tongue lashing she’d issued the girl had been an all out beating. “It’s her fault we lost.”

Varys shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

“Tarly specifically said no kids. She knew that,” Sansa growled, feeling her face heat.

“It’s Jace Bywater’s fault, and no one else’s.” Varys sat in the lounger next to her. “Or perhaps you’d like to beat yourself up for taking the stand? Against advice, I might add.”

It had been stupid and impulsive and she couldn’t stop herself. So convinced that if she went up and testified as to Petyr’s whereabouts, Jace would have little else to throw at them. There was no way she could force her ass to stay in it’s seat.

“We could always look at your decision to attack Jace…”

That had been a terrible choice, and she was grateful Petyr had stopped her. In that moment, hearing the gavel crash down, sentencing her husband to life, nothing else mattered. She would stab Jace as many times as it took to bring that piece of shit to his knees and the people around them would block off the exits and murder anyone who challenged them. They’d stand there afterward, and place the proper calls to dispose of the bodies. Cover stories would be spun and no one would be allowed to leave without swearing to own it as truth.

In a perfect world, that would have worked. Clearly the world wasn’t perfect or Petyr wouldn’t have been arrested in the first place. He saw that--always able to see the bigger picture, and he kept her from carrying out her hasty impassioned plan. Refusing to defend herself to Varys any further, she hissed, “Drop it. It was fine.”

“It was reckless.” He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at her. “Actually, you know who it reminded me of?”

“Don’t say it.” She didn’t want to hear him drudge up the past and compare her to a woman who’d been the only friend she’d ever truly had--crazy or not.

Silence passed between them, and she wondered why he’d come out. He’d jumped between her and Elenei and escorted the bawling, screaming teen away to talk. While she hated feeling undermined, Sansa appreciated the break from her child’s panic and anger. Durran was quiet--as was his way--though she knew he was stewing in his concerns. She would check in on him later. He never opened up when Elenei was around, larger than life and demanding all the attention. Quiet and withdrawn, Durran always observed the dynamics around him. He was much like his father in that way.

A stray tear wet Sansa’s lashes and she sniffed the air, hating that one had escaped.

“Starting a new habit?” Varys asked, his voice breaking her from the memory of Petyr ruffling Durran’s hair.

She blinked back at him, trying to discern the meaning behind his question. Taking pity on her, Varys pointed toward the pack of Newports on the table. Sansa sighed. “Petyr never talks about when he was in jail before.”

“It was a long time ago,” Varys acknowledged.

Sansa nodded. “But, he told me once that he smoked each time he went in and quit each time he got out.” Smiling, she shrugged. “It helps me feel closer to him when he’s so far away. He’s in there smoking a cigarette and I’m out here doing the same thing. I know it sounds stupid.”

Varys’ eyes turned violet with emotion. “It’s not stupid.”

Swallowing at the lump in her throat, Sansa appreciated him saying that. Tucking the hair behind her ears she reached for the lighter. “Thank you. When he comes home, we’ll quit together.”

“It’s bad for your skin. You know that, right?”

Sansa chuckled, it was sick sound that scratched her throat and reassured no one. “It’s a good thing this is only temporary.”

“Is it?” Varys asked, ripping the cigarette from Sansa’s hand, clearly referring to Petyr’s damning sentence. “Here.” He pocketed the pack of cigarettes and pulled a cigar out, offering it to her. “These are his favorite. I’ve been smoking them since we were notified that he was being transported to Karhold.”

Sansa stared back at his silent admission and he averted his gaze as he set it down on the table. He still loved him. After all these years--the marriage, the kids, his relationship with Olyvar, he still loved Petyr. In the past she would have felt threatened by that, but now she only felt the hollow in her heart grow for him. Varys spent all this time playing the trusted friend, uncle to their children, never truly able to let go and stop loving him.

Feeling another tear wet her lashes, she reached for the cigar and bit the tip off. She’d seen it done a thousand times, and felt confident she knew the logistics of how to smoke it. Reaching for the lighter to toast the end, she thought of the two of them sitting there, heartsick under the stars. She smirked. “We’re quite the pair right now, aren’t we?”

“Shh.” Varys put a finger to his lips and winked. “There are cameras everywhere. Don’t make Petyr jealous.”

The idea of him coming home and watching all the video footage of his absence came to mind and she couldn’t help but chuckle. It was a genuine laugh that came from deep within herself and for the first time since he’d been taken from their doorstep, it lacked any bitterness. She felt guilty the minute she realized she found enjoyment in anything and cleared her throat, pulling her guard back up.

“Petyr was given twenty-five to life.” Varys words hung in the air and proved he was feeling just as guilty as she was.

Sansa let the smoke fill her mouth and then inhaled fresh air through her nose, knowing it would let her taste the burn better. Desperate to feel something.

Varys lit his own cigar in the meantime and looked back at her. “You said it was temporary.” Setting the butane lighter back in his pocket, he asked, “Am I to take it that you know your next move, now?”

“No, not yet. I need more information,” she admitted. The wheels in her head turned and she realized, “I need Stannis.”

His phone was already out and dialing and she didn’t bother stopping him. She should have pried more in the beginning, found out more before they charged full force into the trial. Tarly had been so focused on the night in question, looking only at the evidence and the witnesses, putting all his energy into proving Petyr’s innocence. It was the wrong move.

The trial wasn’t the real threat, but instead the man behind it: District Attorney Jacelyn Bywater. She needed to know what made the man tick. They would leave the appeal to Tarly and she’d decimate any resistance, i.e. Bywater.

That took care of things outside, but what about inside? Thinking of Petyr in a jail cell with all the worst criminals surrounding him, she couldn’t handle the idea of him so vulnerable. Would anyone stand with him? “He’ll need protection,” she said as soon as Varys hung up.

“Mm,” he agreed. “Too bad we can’t send the Mountain in.”

Sansa had been thinking the same thing. Unfortunately, the Mountain had been dead for some years now. He’d accidentally hung himself off the door knob of his closet as he laid on the floor of his bedroom, letting his dog lick peanut butter off his dick with the nature channel on in the background. Apparently watching mushrooms bloom with a limited air supply and his dog’s tongue on him had been his kink. It was no wonder why he never bothered the girls at the club.

There had been plenty of muscle in the city still, but none like him, and Sansa wanted the best for Petyr. She glanced over at Varys back on his phone. “Who are you calling?”

“Lyanna Mormont,” he answered, covering the mouthpiece.

That made sense. There were plenty of Wildlings behind bars, it stood to reason that one of them would be big enough to protect Petyr. Little Lyanna only need place a visit or a call and issue the order from outside. She was young, but she’d been quite adept at pulling that gang together into some semblance of organization. The girl stayed to the outskirts of the city, uninterested in the politics of each family, but she held her own whenever they had run ins.

Her cigar had only gone halfway before she heard footsteps on her patio. It was Stannis, his expression tight and his hands in his pocket. He was uncomfortable and she wondered if it was because he worried for himself, being beckoned to the Baelish estate so late at night and without explanation. Or, if he was touched by just how wrecked she looked without her other half. “Stannis,” she acknowledged.

“Sansa,” he returned and stopped a few feet away.

“Tell me everything you know about Jace Bywater,” she said, cutting to the chase. There was no time for the natural progression of conversations, every second without Petyr feeling so much longer than it was.

Stannis shook his head. “There isn’t much to know. He’s been around, innocuously, for a while now. Only just recently got promoted.”

“So he’s from here?” Varys asked, tilting his head in interest. “You said he wanted to wipe out crime--why?”

“Because he hates organized crime,” Stannis answered as if was the most obvious answer. “He’s never been bought.”

“Why not?” Sansa asked, sitting up. It was strange to think they wouldn’t have offered him a nice padded envelope for Christmas as they did everyone else.

A low frustrated growl rumbled from Varys before he said, “Because he never took the money.”

Sansa whipped her head to Varys. “And that didn’t seem suspicious to you?”

“Of course it was suspicious!” Varys hissed back. “We were looking into it right before Petyr was taken.”

“So we have no idea why he declined the cash?” Sansa asked, glancing between both men, feeling herself fume.

Stannis gave her a sympathetic look. “That’s not entirely true.”

“You know?”

He paused for a moment and then nodded. “I looked into him after I took the stand. Had to know what I was dealing with trying to run this city…”

Petyr would have smirked at that. No one run this city but them, not Stannis, not Jace Bywater--no one. Sansa bit the inside of her cheek to keep from reminding him of that. She needed him to talk so she nodded for him to continue.

Stannis sighed and loosened his tie. “Bywater isn’t his real name.”

“What is it?” Varys asked, his phone in hand, ready to research.

“Foundling Boy.”

Sansa stared back, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“It’s what the authorities name abandoned babies when they’re taken into custody. No one knows who his father is--what family connections he might have.” Stannis explained, digging his hands into his pockets.

“Sounds as if there aren’t any,” Varys said, tucking his phone back in his pocket. Sansa could tell that upset him more than if Jace had come from a powerful family. Men with nothing to lose were the hardest to break, and she knew Varys was already mentally adjusting his plans to account for that. He turned back to Stannis. “If he has no affiliations, why is he after us?”

Sansa supported his question. “It must be more than simply that he dislikes crime.”

Stannis shook his head. “Apparently, a few days before his eighteenth birthday, the orphanage he’d been living in--he was never adopted, had been caught in the crosshair of a scuffle between the Lannisters and the Arryns.”

The Lannisters.

Sansa rubbed at the tightness in her chest as she cursed, “Dammit Cersei.”

“Scuffle?” Varys asked for clarification.

“Apparently-”

“Out with it!” Sansa barked. His hesitation was driving her crazy. Every single detail mattered!

Stannis cleared his throat and scowled back. “In the midst of the fray, one of the families hit a gas line. Took out the entire block--including the orphanage.”

Varys closed his eyes and shook his head. Anger boiled so hot within Sansa that even her fingernails started to hurt. She could just picture Jaime and Cersei hanging out a car window, doing lines of coke off each other as they fired carelessly at whatever they passed by. Of course they hit a gas line.

“You named the Arryns and the Lannisters,” Varys pointed out. “Jace has no quarrel with us.”

Stannis sucked in a breath. “After that happened, he swore he’d clean up the city. He’s just now finally got the capability to do so.” His eyes met Sansa’s, pity pouring out of them. “It took awhile for him to rise to DA, and he’s gathered a bit of a following in the process. All upstanding citizens who keep their noses clean--or claim to, anyway.”

Varys snorted. “All people who had no problem accepting our payoffs before.”

Sansa turned back to Stannis, seeing a frustrated smile form. “The city is getting tired of organized crime.”

“Careful,” Varys warned, taking issue with his tone. “You’re not on TV now.”

Stannis stepped forward, sneering, “The cameras tell no lies.”

“Meaning?” Varys growled.

“Meaning, I’ve meant every word I’ve spoken into the lens for years.” Stannis postured back, towering over Varys. “You won’t catch me crying when everything falls down around you!”

It was a strange shift in power and it was unsettling to watch. For the first time ever, Sansa wondered who could take who in a fight, if it came down to it. Stannis had the reach, but Varys had the power. Reaching for her phone, she double tapped on Jon’s picture, silently calling him to come. Hardening her voice to break them apart, Sansa hissed, “It is always good to know who our friends are.”

Stannis glanced over to her and then retreated a couple of steps from Varys. “Please don’t misunderstand me, I’m grateful for every dime I’ve earned--however I’ve earned it. Shireen wouldn’t have lasted half as long as she had if we relied solely on our HMO.”

The sound of heavy breathing, drew Stannis’ attention to Jon standing beside him. Sansa held her hand up to hold her cousin off. Looking back at Stannis she urged him, “Go on.”

Clearing his throat, he added, “I can appreciate something and not like it.”

“You may leave,” she dismissed him, showing him that she had the power to. “Oh, and Stannis?”

He paused.

“You will share anything else you learn about Bywater, or we’ll offer you another reason to appreciate us,” she threatened, her gaze boring down into his as she smiled. “Give our regards to Joselyn.”

Stannis’ lips thinned as her glared back. After a second, he tipped his head at her and turned on his heel to leave. He was out of eyesight before Jon’s hands moved to ask what had happened. They filled him in as he took heavy steps over to a lounger and plopped down on it. His boots were untied and loose around his ankles. It was clear that he’d barely gotten shoes on before he’d run for her.

There was something to be said for loyalty like that.

He told her that there had to be more to everything than just a blown up orphanage. Varys agreed, “Yes, it had to be more personal than that. It was a building. No one’s that attached to a transitory space.”

Hours passed by the pool as they sat together, mostly in silence, though sometimes sharing a stray thought towards their predicament. Finally, it was Jon that stood, reaching his hand for Sansa’s. She waved him off and he shook his head, insisting. He told her it was the only way he could be sure she would go to bed, and she was too tired to argue, so she let him escort her to her room.

Before he could leave, she caught him mid-turn and locked her arms tight around him. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear.

For never wavering.

For always being there.

For never being a part of the problem.

He patted her back and gave her a light peck on the cheek before he walked back down the hall. She closed her eyes as she turned the knob, not wanting to see her bedroom empty. Each foot touched tentatively to the hardwood floor in front of her, eyes squinting, refusing to look around her as she made her way to the bed.

Her hands reached out in front of her, feeling the bed before she ran into it. It was cold under her palms, and she knew if she changed into a nightie--or one of Petyr’s shirts, as she had the past few nights, the chill would reach the rest of her. Burying her face in her pillow, she inhaled deeply, finally releasing the hot tear that rolled down her cheek and soaked into the satin material. His scent had left the sheets a week ago, but that hadn’t stopped her from seeking it out on the off chance that she’d missed the one square inch that still held it.

Alone in the bed they’d shared, Sansa stroked her fingers over the pillow beside her--Petyr’s pillow. “We’ll be together again. I swear it,” she whispered, her throat closing over the idea of twenty-five years without him.

Twenty-five _days_ would be hard enough--Varys told her that she couldn’t visit Petyr until he’d been processed. Tarly told her it took upwards of thirty days to ‘process’ a new admission. It was all too much to bear, and yet they were faced with no other option. Tears dripped from her jaw down to her chest and over her shoulders as she silently swore vengeance on the dumpster baby that had taken her husband away.

   

  



	9. Witchy Woman

“That’s your girl?” Cotter asked from the windowed booth beside him.  

Petyr looked up, following his gaze through the glass. It most definitely was _his girl._ Only one woman could ever stall his heart in his chest just by looking at her--taking her in head to toe. Sansa was as gorgeous as the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her, if not more so now that he’d been without her, after having the chance to know her so well--her loves and hates, her sex and violence, her sounds and taste.

She sashayed in on the pair of red bottoms he’d stolen for her on one of their dates from a few months prior--before everything had gone to shit. The dress she wore hugged every curve of her body, showing more flesh than was decent, and demonstrated just how well the prison’s central air was working. The blood rushed straight to his cock, making his fingers curl and his palms itch to touch her.

_Mine._

He watched her flip her long locks over her shoulder, a sinful smile curving her lips in his direction. “Mm,” he answered Cotter because words weren’t forming--none that he would repeat anyway. Except of course to Sansa, with her scent filling his nostrils, and her curves filling his grip. He’d repeat all of his filthy thoughts then.  

“Damn.” Cotter appreciated the view.

_Watch it, Cotter…_

“She’s no Betty Crocker, that’s for sure.” He laughed and asked, “How long did you say you’ve been married?”

Fuck this small talk. It was too difficult to count or find the words necessary to engage, to offer any give or take with anyone but Sansa. She glowed so goddamned bright and it had been too long since he’d seen her. Only in court and the glimpses he got while they prepped for trial. He hadn’t seen her like this--here for him, dressed for him, in so very long.  

Sansa locked eyes with his as she sat in the plastic chair Karhold Correctional provided it’s visitors. Her smirk was all tease. She knew without question just how caveman he was becoming and he’d give anything to kiss that smirk off her face and get primitive.

The glass was a cruel barrier separating them, offering nothing but sheer torture--to see and not touch, to not feel her against him. Their love wasn’t any more tangible under these conditions and that fact only served to nettle. He’d longed for this visit and yet it was doing nothing to sate his craving for her.

Feeling Cotter beside him, gawking, Petyr hissed under his breath, “ _Fuck off._ ”

Cotter stumbled over his words a bit before turning away. “Yeah, man. Sure. On it.”

Sansa made no motion to lift the phone off the hook beside her, just sat there looking ethereal. Petyr leaned back in his seat, staring at his dream come true. He would make the most of this visit, even if he couldn’t touch her. His gaze alternated between taking stock of her features to refresh his memory bank and just downright leering. The jumpsuit he had to wear was not as tight as his civilian clothes and allowed room for his erection to grow and tent under the table. Needing more, he gestured to the phone, silently asking her to lift it.

Sansa’s expression never changed, nor did she look away as she reached for it. He watched her red lipstick move (fuck if it wasn’t the same exact shade she wore throughout their bloody courtship) as she breathed, “ _Petyr._ ”

Goosebumps spread over his flesh and stood each fine hair on end, prickling uncomfortably under the weight of his clothes. The sound of Sansa’s voice could only be likened to mainlining heroin, so warm and welcoming with an underlying tinge of immorality. He closed his eyes, overloaded with sensation. Reminding himself to breathe, he inhaled deeply through his nostrils. When he opened his eyes again, her grin had grown. She leaned in to rest her elbows on the table, her plunging neckline advertising the tits he knew so well.

He had to get a hold of himself. Petyr knew she was upset, but this was brutal. “You’re punishing me.”

Her smile stayed in place as her eyes darted around him, taking note of how the guards paced behind the long line of visitation. “Aww, baby. Why would you think that?”

 _Baby_.

So much for a moment alone.

Sansa hardly ever used that endearment--not unless it was a roleplay, or there was an audience she meant to play up their affection for. It would be to hide something else. Frustrated beyond reason, Petyr clenched his jaw shut through his forced smile. He didn’t want to play or pretend. He wanted to break the glass, jump through to the other side, pin her to the ground and fuck her like he was trying to climb inside.

Drawing another deep breath, Petyr let his eyes flutter shut to reign himself in. If Sansa was trying to hide something, that meant she wanted to talk business. No. Not wanted--needed. She wasn’t doing this to toy with him; she was cruel but not that cruel. Blinking his eyes open, he focused on hers, the blue in them so true. She was doing this because she had to.

His Sansa had been left alone to rule without him. Granted, she’d always known how to hold her own, and throughout the course of their marriage, she’d only become more and more proficient. Still--ruling was something they did together, and now he’d left her alone to manage it all without him.

Of course she would make every moment with him count. He would only love her less if she didn’t. Choosing his words carefully, Petyr let her know he understood. “Of all the dresses you could have worn, you chose your favorite for cock-teasing.” He smiled and he knew she would notice that it didn’t touch his eyes as he said, “As if I’m not suffering enough.”

Without his life, his kids, or his wife.

Her gaze flashed up at him and the slight widening of her eyes told him that she got his meaning loud and clear. They were so insync, even after being forced apart. Licking her lips, she leaned in. “Oh, I’ll make you suffer, baby. You know I always get wet when things are _harder_ for you.”

_Translation: I know you hurt, and I miss you too._

Petyr slouched in his seat, lifting his hips under the table as he said, “Tell me what else makes you wet.”

_Translation: What do you want to talk about that we need to be so secretive?_

“Bad boys do.” Sansa gave a sinful grin--another one she didn’t mean. Or maybe she did, but other things were more pressing at the moment. “Especially when they’re supposed to be good, but they break the rules and do bad things.”

_Translation: Someone on the right side of the law was acting more towards the left._

Did she mean Stannis or Jace? Stannis was broken enough, and Jace was clearly crooked in his quest for cleanliness. “Yeah? I wanna do bad things to you.”

“How bad?” Sansa smoothed a hand over her lap, pulling his eyes to her creamy thighs.

His response may have been for show, but fuck if he didn’t mean it. Watching her rub and slide her palm over everywhere he wished his tongue could travel, was grating. Gritting his teeth, he ventured a guess, “Bad enough the cops will be beating down our door again.”

_Translation: Stannis?_

“Mm,” she purred. “Good thing I got my handcuffs, and an attorney on speed dial.”

_Translation: Not Stannis, but Jace._

Petyr couldn’t help but notice that she had mentioned handcuffs when she wasn’t talking about the police--she was getting just as affected by their little drama as he was. He wondered if she’d touch herself as soon as she got back to her car.  

Loathing to waste their visit on that fuck-wit Jace, Petyr put the image of her foot up on the dashboard, cheeks red and gasping as her fingers pinched and rubbed her clit, out of his head. Forcing himself back into the game, he set himself to asking what she wanted to talk about. “Keep the handcuffs, but let’s leave the lawyers out of it. I don’t need them sniffing around when I drive my face so deep in your pussy you lose your voice screaming my name.”

_Translation: Fuck Jace._

It was Sansa’s turn to close her eyes and picture it. She tensed in her chair and he knew she was clenching her thighs together. “I can’t wait, Petyr. _I need it_ ,” she whined. “Our bed’s so big and empty without you there,” she paused to glance up at the guard behind him before she smiled and continued, “ _screwing_ me senseless all over it.”

As much as he knew it was for someone else’s benefit, Petyr couldn’t stifle a groan as he gripped his erection under the table. “Tell me how you fuck yourself when I’m gone,” he demanded, more because she had gotten him worked up in memory than to move their covert conversation along.

Sansa leaned in, setting her ample rack on the table so it bubbled up in her cleavage as she whispered, “I’m going to come so hard and loud for that talented tongue of yours, that the neighbors will file a noise complaint.”

Petyr sat straighter in his seat, noticing her inconsistency. She hadn’t taken his direction, but instead used her words to lead their conversation away from his lust.

_Translation: I’m trying to tell you something about both Stannis and Jace._

“Mm,” Petyr groaned for anyone listening to hear. “By the time they get there, I’ll be driving my cock in that perfect pussy of yours til you scream for me all over again.”

Sansa gave a breathy chuckle before adding, “They’ll get there and not know what to do. Hell, baby. The cops, themselves, will call 911 over how fucking crazy we get together.”

_Translation: Stannis is scared._

Judging by the attention she drew to Jace, she was trying to tell him that Stannis was scared of Jace, specifically. That wasn’t surprising. Stannis had always been an alarmist, wearing worry as a second skin. Petyr chuckled, knowing he had to get to the point before he let their talk get him too worked up. “Glad you know what’s in store for you as soon as I’m free. Now, _tell me something_ I don’t know--like what color your panties are today.”

_Translation: What makes Stannis’ worry so special this time?_

Her eyes locked with his. “I _lost_ them in a trashcan on the way in.”

“You did?”

“Yes. I didn’t want any _proof_ of how bad I got it for you, soaking through.” She sucked on her bottom lip and glanced away before she admitted, “I’m like a bitch in heat just seeing you again, remembering all the things we’ve done together.”

She always had to up the ante.

If he couldn’t see the raw need coursing through her--if he didn’t know all her little tells, he’d think she was torturing him on purpose. It somehow made it better knowing being apart wasn’t easy for her either.

Petyr’s mind raced away from the heavy emotions that threatened to consume them both. He had to focus, had to figure out what she was telling him. What had she just said? What had she just emphasized? Who had they just been talking about?

Stannis.

Lost.

Proof.

She was telling him that Stannis was going to dispose of the evidence. With as much as they were paying him, Petyr had damn-well hoped so. That should have been the man’s first move, before it had ever been brought to trial in the first place. Unfortunately, Jace had been powerful enough to prevent that the first time. For the appeal, however, all the cards had been laid out on the table. There would be no hidden evidence, and likewise no reason to keep Stannis from what they did have. Good boy, Stannis.

The problem was, that it wasn’t enough. His knife with his fingerprints all over it, was a big part, but that anonymous tip that started it all needed to be addressed. The source needed to be rooted out and made to disappear. He tilted his head, thinking of how to say as much to her. “Don’t worry, I’d never sing on you for getting your panties all wet.” He spoke low to make sure he had her full attention and that no one else was overhearing him say, “You and I are forever, got long lives to live. Stool pigeons don’t.”

He watched her mind work, figuring out what he was telling her. A flash of understanding crossed her eyes and she offered a slight nod in response.

A moment of silence passed between them, their eyes saying all the things they couldn’t. There was no more need to code their words, the messages all sent and received. The longing had returned in the solemnity of it all, and Petyr suddenly couldn’t stand the quiet, the frown of her lips, the red rims of her eyes. She wouldn’t cry, he knew that.

That didn’t mean she didn’t need to. Or that he didn’t need to hold her through it.

But he couldn’t. Not here.

They needed a distraction, a light moment amidst all the muck they were left raking. His lips pulled into a small smile. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Sansa arched an eyebrow and waited for him to continue.

“Is it true that when they took me, you drove over to Tarly’s own house to get him on the case?”

“Yes, of course.” Her eyes softened. “I wasn’t going to waste a millisecond of time. Office or house--I didn’t care what I was interrupting. Nothing else was as important.”

Her loyalty squeezed at his chest and forced him to swallow the lump in his throat before he could speak again. Giving her a crooked smile, he asked, “And were you really dressed in nothing but your robe at the time?”

She stilled, shook by his question. Good. He wanted her to know that he still knew things, that just because he was stuck behind bars, didn’t mean he wasn’t still apart of their world--her world. He was still a man, and she was still his woman.

Slowly, she nodded a confirmation, though he wasn’t sure if she was simply answering his question, or if she might also be learning the lesson he was teaching. He clucked his teeth and shook his head. “What have I told you about that body?”

Sansa glanced away, the faintest of blushes tinging her cheeks. Lust rolled through him, setting everything it touched to flame. He had thought that nearly twenty years of marriage and a thriving sex life would have taken that away from her, leaving her incapable of any modesty. Yet there she was, blushing like a schoolgirl as she whispered, “It belongs to you.”

God, that woman still surprised him. “Mm,” he agreed. “So, I better not hear you’re running around half naked again, or you’ll get such a spanking when I get home.”

His words hung in the air, _when I get home_. As if it were that easy, that within reach. Being there with her (even if behind a half an inch of plexiglass), it was easy to slip into their rhythm and forget that this was twenty-five to life. Until that appeal came through, there would be no going home anytime soon.

He knew it and she knew it, and thinking anything else was just living in fantasy. Saying it more for himself than her, Petyr reminded her of his appeal. “Tarly is working on things. I’m not doing that time.”

She nodded, her arms folding over her chest. It was a defensive maneuver and he knew it was because she had doubts. Who could blame her? At least she had the good sense not to say so. Though, that didn’t make it feel any better. Needing to change the subject he asked, “How’s business?”

He had expected her to veil anything she needed to relay to him on this subject matter, but hoped she wouldn’t use their flirty facade to do so again. Petyr simply didn’t have the stomach for it after thinking too long on their current predicament.

“Our associates are working surprisingly well together,” Sansa replied. He watched her shrug her shoulders, defensively, as if anticipating his judgement. “I’ve found it helpful to apply some checks and balances to keep things running smoothly.”

Checks and balances--she was putting them on each other.

He could only guess which ones she’d been working in particular. If she was worried he’d be disappointed in her decision, she could stop. It was the right move and he was proud of her. “I would have done the same,” he assured her.

Sansa’s bright blue eyes sparked with the pride that flared within at his approval. Sansa did love her praise, and Petyr had enjoyed having reason to give it as much as he enjoyed watching her receive it. “Varys has been instrumental in assessing the value of our different partnerships during this time.” She broke eye contact long enough to glance at the guard that passed by. “In light of all the media coverage, he’s been very focused on determining who’s reliable still, and who’s been affected by our whirlwind.”

She may have phrased it as if the only thing that would make their business associates disloyal was a dislike of all the media coverage and attention the Baelishes were receiving. It was a plausible enough reason to explain the sudden need for a supposedly legitimate family business empire to suddenly start combing through their ranks to check for loyalty. As opposed to the very real reason being that Varys was looking for the anonymous rat who needed to go for a deep swim in the ocean.

Cutting straight to the point, Petyr asked, “And how are the Greyjoys?”

There was no point in hiding their vested interest in Vic and his case from the listening ears. It had already come out that they were ‘business associates’ and that they had worked together. More than that, they were being tried for colluding on the same crime. It actually would have been suspicious if he hadn’t asked after Vic.

“Vic was prosecuted and he’s in the tail end of his trial now. It’s moving much quicker than yours did because of all of the evidence they recycled.”

Petyr thought of the knife Stannis was planning to lose. If he did it before Vic’s trial, it wouldn’t do much one way or another for his case. If he waited and allowed Vic’s attorney to use the evidence, it would be used to pin everything on Petyr and make Vic look innocent because his fingers hadn’t been on the knife.

Distracting him from those dark thoughts, Sansa added another, “It’s doubtful that he’ll walk. You’ll probably see him before our next visit.”

He wasn’t ashamed to admit how useful it might be to see a friendly face--provided he was still friendly. The fact that Vic was being tried separately didn’t inspire confidence. Suge’s testimony hadn’t either, but then again, Petyr hadn’t expected any different from her. She was being careful and protecting her man to the best of her ability. Sansa wouldn’t have acted any differently in her place. “You should pay his wife a visit.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed as she tried to discern his meaning. “I will,” she vowed, lips tight.

Petyr chuckled at his bloodthirsty wife, so ready to jump to violence as the only possible meaning he might have had. “No,” he corrected. “A simple check-in on a fellow wife.” His smirk died as he added, “Now that you both have so much in common.”

Her jaw dropped at that, a look of pure outrage crossing over her features. “Oh yes, Petyr.” Her voice was sharp and punishing as she snapped, “We’ll have slumber parties and braid each other’s hair to pass the time without our husbands.”  Sansa squinted at him as she added, “So glad I have someone to bond with now.”

“You have missed having a girlfriend,” he hissed back because he couldn’t simply dispel her anger by backing her against the wall behind her and driving himself hard between her legs. That definitely would have shut her up and comforted them both--win-win.

Still, it had been a low blow and he wasn’t surprised when she hadn’t taken kindly to it. Prison was slowly stripping Petyr of his polish. His filter was slipping and the crass was showing, as was the violence. All the things he’d managed to hide behind a tailored suit and and smug smile were starting to peek through the cracks. All the order and control was taking a toll on him, messing with his head if he was so willing to snarl back at the love of his life.

He was in the wrong and couldn’t admit it. Not while he was in here. Apologies meant admitting weakness, something he couldn’t afford.

“Fuck you!” Her signature _Fresh From the Fray_ lips curled into a sneer.

The things those lips could do…

“If only,” he growled back, letting his eyes rove down to her chest again, because lust was the closest thing to repentance he could offer, and the softest thing she might allow. He wondered if their time apart was making her harder too.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he decided he wouldn’t blame her if it was. They couldn’t be the same people they were together, not with so much danger around them.

Hell, if given the opportunity, he’d bury his face in those tits and never come out again. She’d let him too, he knew it. However abrasive she might have had to become, she’d accept him. She always would. Her hand would curl around the back of his neck, her fingertips burrowing in his hair as she purred down to him, promising that he could stay as long as he wanted.

It was on that fantasy, that his erection turned painful.

Something in her broke, her eyes softening as she whispered, “I miss you. So much, I can’t breathe sometimes.”

All the loneliness and sorrow he’d been swallowing down started to climb the back of his throat. Petyr sniffed and blinked his eyes a couple of times to force it back down. Tears had never come easily to him, regardless of all the tragedies he’d faced throughout his life. Though, they came now and he knew if anyone saw that tender moment that weakened him, they would rip him apart for it.

He wanted to tell her to keep breathing for him. That he felt the same and the only thing keeping him going was to know that she was out there going too. But he couldn’t. Saying any that would only bring all that pain back up his throat again. So instead, he nodded once, letting her know he heard her and he felt her.

And then he escaped her by asking, “How are the kids?”

She stared back at him, silently deciding whether or not to rile over his lack of response. This time it was she that sniffed, her eyes sparkling as she ground out, “ _Fine_.”

She’d been vulnerable for him, and he couldn’t be that for her.

It hurt.

Then again, what didn’t anymore?

“Come on,” he coaxed. _Talk to me. Forgive me. Keep loving me._

She blew out a breath of air and relented. “They’re strong. Holding up, Petyr.” Glancing away, she whispered into the phone, “As far as I can tell.”

His eyebrows shot up at that quiet confession. “As far as you can tell?” He repeated back to her.

“They’re not talking to me at the moment.”

“Not even Durran?” Petyr couldn’t help but doubt. The boy may have been the younger sibling, but he always tended to be the more reasonable one out of the two.

Sansa shook her head.

“Why?”

Heaving a sigh, she explained, “They are upset with me because we won’t let them visit.”

It had been a mutual decision. Their first phone call, Sansa asked when she and the kids could visit and Petyr told her in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want the kids to see him in jail. He didn’t want them to see him in a jumpsuit, behind plexiglass, with handcuffs, reduced to absolutely fucking nothing. Sansa hadn’t argued him on it, and admitted it wasn’t the sort of memories she wanted their children to harbor either.

In this particular case, he hoped that the truth might actually smooth things over. “Did you tell them it’s because we don’t want them seeing me like this?”

“Of course.”

“And what did they say?”

Sansa closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “Durran slammed his bedroom door in my face, and Elenei peeled out of the driveway on the back of a crotch-rocket.”

“ _What?_ ” Petyr growled, nearly coming out of his chair. Those things weren’t safe, and if she had been on the back of it, who was the stupid horny prick driving?

“Relax. She came back.” Sansa dropped her palm on the table and opened her eyes to glare daggers at him before exclaiming, “I’m doing the best I can!”

He glared back, ready to bark that it wasn’t enough, when he stopped himself. Taking her in again, he thought about her sitting on the other side of the glass, dressed to impress him. He called and she came. Things got ugly and she was still there by his side. Sansa loved their children more than she loved life itself and he had no doubt that she was trying her best for them, all the while licking her own wounds.

All the anger seeped out of him as he admitted, “I wish I could be there to help you.”

“If you were there, you wouldn’t need to help me.”

There was no venom in her words, just a deflated statement of fact. She hadn’t meant to club him with their harsh reality, only offer the truth they both knew. Their children had not gotten out of this ordeal unscathed, not by a long shot.

“Times up!” A voice boomed through the speaker and Petyr’s heart sank to watch her stand, the phone still in her hand, the sound of her breathing still piping through the receiver.

Visitors passed by behind her, making their way for the exit. Sansa lingered, waiting to be escorted away. She looked like she wanted to say a million things, but had thought better of all them in a split second’s time. A guard approached her, speaking at her, as she stared through the glass and finally settled on saying, “I’ll put more money on your commissary before I go.”

He nodded back because he knew that considering the circumstances, that had been as good as telling him she loved him. “Keep your chin up,” he responded, because she needed to know that he loved her too. That he believed in her.

The phone was suddenly ripped from his ear and Petyr tore his eyes from Sansa to see Thorne slam it down on the receiver. “Visit’s up, Offender!”

Petyr turned back to the glass to see that Sansa had been shuffled off. Thorne’s iron grip wrapped around his arm as he pulled back away from the window. “Was that the _missus_?” The greasy smile in his voice slithered too long on that last word.

Refusing to answer--to play into the taunt, every muscle in Petyr’s body tightened as he allowed Thorne to walk him back to his cellblock.

“Those eyes...that body-”

Petyr glared at him, silently daring him to finish his thought.

Confident in the uniform he wore, Thorne made a show of adjusting his dick as they walked. “ _Witchy-_ -only way to describe a woman like that.”

Simmering in the hatred that would one day brutally murder Thorne when he least expected it, Petyr’s jaw tightened.

“Woman like that could make a man do anything to keep her bewitching his bed.”

Yes. Petyr had done anything and always would. Not that it was any of Thorne’s business.

The man wouldn’t let up, egging and goading at him like it was his fulltime job and guarding was just a hobby. “Except her pussy didn’t work on you, did it?” He chuckled. “Did the two kids break it or something? No?”

Petyr’s knuckles cracked beside him, turning white under the strain.

Not waiting for a response, Thorne explained. “It mustn’t be that good anymore, seeing as how you’re in here, celibate as a monk.” Then with no little amount of amusement, he asked, “Unless you’ve made a friend I don’t know about? It’s okay, Kitten. You can tell me if someone bigger and badder decided your ass was made of candy after lights out.”

What had been meant to humiliate Petyr, only added to his long list of resentments. Thorne would pay for the way he treated him, it was just a matter of when.  

“Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure you can get enough friction by adding a finger to the mix.”

It was the most he’d ever seen the man smile, falling into a belly-laugh as he walked, wiping tears from his eyes as he added, “All joshin’ aside, if I had a wife as fiiiine as that-” he started, pausing to make sure Petyr saw his coffee-stained teeth glint back at him. “I’d have toed the damn line and stayed legal.” His grip tightened on Petyr’s arm as he added, “Just so I could fuck that sweet cherry pie every single night rather than only once a year for good behavior.”

_Once a year?_

That got his attention. Trying not to sound as surprised or curious as he was, lest that asshole feel a moment of gratification, he asked, “What are you on about?”

“You didn’t know?” Thorne snickered, swiping his badge to unlock one of the many connecting doors back to general population. “Fucking’s a privilege. Offenders don’t get privileges unless they’ve earned them for keeping their goddamned heads down and doing as their told. Waiting is hard for any man with a woman, but damn is it impossible for a man with a woman like yours. Seen it before. Offenders with witchy women lose their goddamn minds knowing their pussy’s out there getting fucked by every dick that buys them a burger and gives them a shoulder to cry on.”

No. Sansa wouldn’t. He knew that. Even if this was twenty-five to life. She’d die abstinent and frustrated if it meant she couldn’t be with him. This was all just Thorne being the biggest throwback he could be. That fact didn’t negate the other--Thorne wasn’t lying about everything.

All the times Petyr had been locked up had been when he was younger, when he didn’t have someone he loved waiting for him on the other side. He never had to think about conjugals outside of cheering cellmates on along with the rest of the cellblock whenever they left for one of those special visits.

Come to think of it, it was never the same men going for the same visits, and it had only happened a few times in all of his stays...

On some level, Petyr knew that anything good in this hellhole had to be ‘earned’ based on the very subjective guard’s discretion, right down to who got to be first in the cafeteria line. Why would sex be any different?

Because in Petyr’s case, it wasn’t arranging for a whore or a convict-hungry slut living on loveletters to come bend over for some junkie-fuckup because he was itching to get laid. This was so much more than that. More than getting off.

Feeling her pulse around him went beyond fucking. It had been a privilege to lay any small amount of claim on her long before some fuckwit with a can of mace and a billy-club stuck in his belt deemed it one.

Sansa was his forever, his wife.

His _woman_.    

And right now the only thing that mattered more to Petyr than hooking Thorne up to a car battery, was finding out just how in the hell he could get one of those special visits.

 

 

 


	10. Addam's Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Racism

Thorne berated Vic the entire trek back to his cell, one level down and four doors over from Petyr’s. The taunts and jeers were snappy and barked coming from the prison guard-prick who deluded himself into thinking he was better than the cons he shuffled from place to place.

Victarion Greyjoy may not have been Littlefinger, but he was still a heavy hitter, someone the guards could brag to their wives about. Someone Thorne should have known well enough to leave alone--if not for his status, then at least for his temper. The very fact that Vic was moved from the fishbowl so quickly meant he had grated on someone’s nerves--likely the same stupid shit guard announcing his presence all over the cellblock. 

Too many mouthy guards found tragedy waiting at home at the end of a work day after they’d hazed the wrong inmate to let Thorne get away with such audacity. He was playing a dangerous game, and it was surprising that his behavior had not yet caught up with him. Petyr was in the process of an appeal, unfortunately, and would not allow anything to jeopardize that. For now he would reminisce only a couple of months back when he would have been free to offer whatever lessons he deemed necessary. There had not been any consequences then--not any  _ real  _ ones anyway. Not in all the years since Jaime and Cersei. Somehow, for whatever reason, Jace had turned the tables and Petyr needed to be more careful for the time being. 

That didn’t mean that he’d forget. 

Judging by the look on Victarion’s face as he passed, he was already contemplating making a move on good ol’ Thorne. The head to the Greyjoy family was terrible at cooling his heels. He never knew how to play things subtle, always giving his fists all the power. That was not to say such tendencies wouldn’t serve him well in their present setting, only that it wasn’t Petyr’s way, and it lacked respect for the bigger picture. 

At the sound of Vic’s bars slamming shut, Cotter noticed, “Looks like Bywater fucked your friend too.”

“My friend?” Petyr asked, noticing Cotter’s sudden willingness to contribute to conversation.

Cotter chuckled. “Greyjoy is a big name--everyone knows that.”

“And?”

“ _ And _ ,” Cotter continued, his smile intact. “Out there, nobody gets to be somebody without Littlefinger’s say so. So I say, since Greyjoy is a big name, he must be someone you said so to--a friend.”

Petyr smirked. “A more careful man wouldn’t offer such insight.”

Cotter snorted and Petyr wondered if it was because the man was long past caring what happened to him. When he was a guard he had a bright future, and getting too frisky with the baton burned that bright future to bits. Cotter had no reason to live anymore other than that he had not yet quite learned how to die. Perhaps that was why he decided to make the most of his present circumstances and play lacky. 

Petyr stared down at the deck of cards he was shuffling as he took advantage of the man’s interest. “I plan to pay him a visit. Ensure his cellmate is elsewhere.”

Cotter slid off his bunk and got to his feet. “You want me around? Should anything go wrong.” 

The corner of Petyr’s mouth rose. Once a guard dog, always a guard dog. Cotter looked as though he could handle his own in a fight, and though he wasn’t the kind of muscle Petyr wanted, he would take what he could get until Varys came through for him. “Please.”

After dinner, Petyr took his opportunity. Alone and unconcerned about whoever might come his way, Vic stood at his sink, shaving the stubble from around his neck. Petyr announced his presence by throwing the bag of hooch he had been making since he got out of the fishbowl on an empty bunk. Vic turned when he heard the bag slap and gave a wry smile. Using the towel he had over his shoulder to wipe the shaving cream off his face, he spoke through the towel, “Baelish. Was wondering when you’d come around.” 

Petyr strolled in, his hands in his pockets. “Brought you a gift for the new abode. Made it myself.” It was his first batch since the last time he had been incarcerated--before the kids, before Sansa. He was rusty at it and used what he remembered to: jelly packets, a can of fruit cocktail, an old dinner roll, and give or take three cups of sugar.

Vic lifted it off the bed and eyed the murky liquid. “Did you use ketchup or honey?” 

“Jelly.” 

Unfazed by the unconventional ingredient, Vic shrugged his shoulders and took a swig from it. His lips puckered and his eyes squinted shut as he suffered the burn of it. He blinked a few times before he regained his composure and changed the course of their conversation. “She took the stand in your trial.” 

There was no need to ask who he was referring to. Like Petyr, Victarion’s mind would be consumed with thoughts of the only woman who shared his heart. “She did,” Petyr admitted because there was no benefit to lying. Especially not about the man’s wife. “It was wrong of Bywater to call on her.”

“It was fucking ignorant,” Vic corrected as he took another swig, apparently turning to this bitter liquid punishment to ease the ache of life without Suge.

Petyr said nothing, knowing the feeling all too well. In solidarity, he only offered a smile of agreement--one that did not touch his eyes. 

“What I wanna know is,” Vic started to say and then stopped himself. “What I  _ need  _ to know is, what was she wearing?”

Petyr waited for him to explain why something as trivial as dress mattered. When Vic volunteered nothing else, Petyr tried to remember. “Fitted black long sleeve dress with gold pattern--looked like Versace, and a black fur coat.”

“What kind of fur?” 

Petyr thought on it. “Based on the shine and cut, it was probably mink.”

Vic’s lips thinned and his crystal blue irises glittered, his pupils constricting into pinpricks. His body grew taut, forcing words to grit through his teeth, “She wore blood red ostrich feathers and Gucci to my trial.” 

The significance was lost on Petyr.

“Something happened. Between your trial and mine,” Vic growled. “To her. To my Suge.”

Petyr drew a deep breath and ignored the way Cotter shifted beside him, reminding him that he was there. It was quite fortunate that nothing had happened to Sansa or the children, though that could have been attributed to the heavy protection detail he had them roll with even when things were normal. Now however, with danger and uncertainty a thick smog in the air, it was not surprising that Jace had gone for Suge. Petyr wondered what the man had on the barren wannabe popstar.

“Suge wears mink when she’s in a good mood--hopeful, and Tarly even said she did good,” Vic explained, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “Then at my trial she wore ostrich. She only pulls out ostrich when she’s mad enough to murder.” 

Sansa was much the same, her own fashion choices dictated by her mood. Unlike Vic, Petyr would never have shared such knowledge of his wife with anyone. Burberry, Prada, and Chanel, secretly decoded her emotions for him, and him alone.

Vic shook his head and paced the cell, deep in thought. “She’s pissed.” His voice lowered, as if he was speaking to himself. “Fuck, I owe my baby girl all the Jimmy Choos in season when I get out of here.” Finally lifting his head, he turned to Petyr, “I’m telling you, something’s not right, Baelish.” 

Petyr was about to say, ‘We’re in jail, of course something’s  _ not right _ ,’ when he heard a man just outside his cell chuckle and mock, “Hey look! Greyjoy’s losing it over coon pussy!” 

The man was flanked by two others with near-matching swastika tattoos and shaved heads. Unlike his sidekicks, he forewent the shaving and kept his copper hair close cropped in a clean-cut good ‘ol boy look. He wore no tattoos or discernable markings that would easily identify him as a racist, though the company he kept and the septic that spewed from his lips was indication enough. 

He looked familiar--a descendent of someone, though Petyr couldn’t quite place him, or who he might be linked to.   

Vic's neck reddened with rage. Steam poured from his collar as he slowly turned to face the boy scout and ask, “What did you say?” 

“You heard me,” the ginger said. His cronies stayed quiet beside him, crossing their arms over their chests to better make their muscles bulge. Judging by the look of them, neither had ever been in a real fight, at least not any more than a brief scuffle. Petyr wondered what had landed them in prison, probably accessory. Bitches usually came in under lighter circumstances and sucked any cock they had to in order to save their noses from getting broken. “You used to be someone til you got here, now you’re just another nigger-lover without his jungle bunny to dump his cum in.”

Petyr barely heard the crack of Vic’s knuckles before he heard the rustle of his pants moving and leaned back to let him fly past. Vic pinned the man to the wall by his throat, smashing the back of his head against the concrete. “My Suge is God’s fucking gift!” He growled, punching him repeatedly in the gut with his free hand.

The nazi-throwbacks stood stunned by Vic’s speed and strength. Vic wasn’t as large and powerful as the Mountain had been, but his hot head always tipped the odds a little further in his favor when it came down to a bare knuckle brawl. “Ignorant inbred fuck!”  

It was then, amidst the chaos that recollection struck Petyr. The man was a Marbrand, and by the look of him, he could only be Addam. He was one of the last vestiges of the Lannister rule. His father had been loyal to Jaime and Cersei and was one of the casualties of the warehouse shootout so many years ago. Of course Addam would grow up to be a prick. Although, chances were good that he would have still been a shit even if everyone had lived--Jaime and Cersei never discriminated when it came to supporters and could have cared less how many crosses people burnt on lawns with tiki torches if it meant the cash and drugs kept moving. 

Cotter had clobbered one of Addam’s men before he could make his way toward Vic. The other man stood caught, his eyes darting from Addam to his friend. Petyr knew what came next, he would then turn his attention to Petyr and size him up before deciding he was younger and stronger to pounce. Needing to take control of the situation, Petyr asked, “You’re a Frey, aren’t you?” 

The man said nothing, which was answer enough. 

“Freys like money.” Petyr issued a superficial compliment, “ _ Smart _ men like money.” 

“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s no cash in here,” he spat back.

“No,” Petyr agreed, biting the inside of his cheek. “But there are perks.” 

The skinhead furrowed his brow to challenge, “Like?” 

Cotter’s arm tightened, cutting off the air supply to the man he held. Addam had given up any pretense of a fight under Vic’s punishing fists and snarled exclamations that his wife was ‘beautiful.’ Petyr grinned at the Frey. “You have a large family--lot of women in it.”

The man stiffened in front of him, not liking where this was going. 

“Is it true what they say about Frey girls?” Cotter asked from his side of the cell, playing perfectly into Petyr’s hand. “That they have a type?”

“Fuck you, man!” Frey spat back. 

The steady thud of Vic’s fists pummeling Addam mated with the sick splat of blood on the floor. Any other man would have stopped by now. Vic had no off switch and Petyr had grown used to that, even if the circumstances were different now. Petyr pressed on, sneering, “Oh yes, they do.  _ Daddies _ .” One needn’t wonder what happened under the family roof to understand the reasoning behind the stereotypical Frey girl’s inclinations.

“Hell, I’ll be their Daddy if they want,” Cotter chuckled over the shoulder of the man he restrained. Cotter was learning to be a formidable henchman. Or, perhaps, he had always had it in him and simply couldn’t act so because he had been on the straight and narrow for too long.

Before Frey got too riled, Petyr got to the point. “Addam is dead, and you’ll take the credit for it.” 

“Fuck you, I will!” 

On cue, Addam’s lifeless body sank to the floor and Vic staggered back, his knuckles busted and bloody. His hair hung wet with sweat over his face, concealing the sick smile that tugged at either cheek. “You will,” Vic spoke calmly through his hair. Even through the murderous rage that coursed through his veins and bludgeoned Addam to death one fierce hook at a time, Vic knew what was going on. This definitely was not the first time Vic’s impulsive temper led to some hasty clean up.

All at once he threw his head back and sniffed against his arm as he caught his breath. Killing people with one’s bare hands can be quite draining. “You will because I’m getting back to my Suge yesterday.” Vic turned back toward the small sink in his cell as he reached over his head and pulled the blood splattered cotton shirt off. “Not putting any more years on my sentence.” 

Petyr turned back to Frey while Vic washed the blood off his hands and face. “You’ll do it because you don’t want the next piece of mail you open to be pictures of the train my men will run on your favorite sister, bound, gagged, and bent over your mother’s kitchen table.” There were so many more crass descriptors he could have offered, and in the coming days may have to depending on his new associate’s IQs, though the horror on this man’s face promised the meaning was made perfectly clear. 

A lot of convicts issued threats like these, very few had the means to carry them out. Vic stood in his underwear, and held his bloody clothes out to Frey. “Strip.” 

Frey reached for his shirt absently. They were not exactly the same size, though the prison uniforms were issued in the same standard sizes, so it would raise no eyebrows to see the clothing fitting each man differently. 

“What about this one?” Cotter asked, his head tilted to the man in his arms.

He had been silent this entire time, perhaps Nazis had some brains after all. Petyr waved his hand at him and issued his order, “Hit him.” 

Frey was in the middle of pulling Vic’s bloody pants up over his legs when he shook his head confused. “What?” 

The man tensed in Cotter’s arms, but Cotter held him still, whispering something menacing in his ear. 

“Cut your knuckles on your friend,” Vic said, pulling the crucifix he wore out from underneath the shirt he had just put on. “No one’ll believe you offed this bigoted-fuck if you keep looking as soft as a baby’s ass.” 

Frey gave his friend a look and the man pursed his lips, his nostrils flaring. “Go ahead,” Cotter encouraged. “I’ve got him.” 

Petyr rounded on Frey and poured poison in his ears. “Do it and you’ll be top dog.”

“No!” Nameless Skinhead No. 2 finally found his voice. “He’s filling you full of shit!”

Cotter caught him hard in the ribs to stifle him. “Shut up.”

Frey stepped closer to his friend, fist balled, nerves making his eyes dart around him. 

“Time is of the essence,” Petyr reminded him, thankful that Vic’s grip on Addam’s throat had prevented him from dying a particularly loud death. 

In a last pathetic effort to save his face, the man spat out, “You know once the real top dog gets out of the hole. You’re fucked if you think walking around like you’re him is gonna fly.” 

Frey’s face scrunched up tight, pulling all the hatred he had inside him, reaching for each drop. “Shut up, Ferren.” Frey threw the first punch and it was easy to see he was not prepared for the reverberation. He reeled back to recover and glanced at Petyr and Vic, looking for approval. 

“Again,” Vic ordered and Petyr nodded. 

When Frey turned back toward Ferren, Petyr’s voice filled his ear with visions of splendor. “We’ll deal with this Top Dog, whoever he is. Take your place as head of your little nazi circle-jerk.”  _ And kneel for us whenever we snap our fingers. _

Ferren was not as quiet as Addam and after a few more slugs, Petyr whistled for Cotter to release him. “Listen and listen good. Addam, you and your pussy-friend all came to fuck up Vic under Addam’s orders. Vic threw some punches at Addam and Ferren. Pissed off at Addam over whatever it is you usually argue over, you took your opportunity to turn on him. You lost control and he stopped breathing.” 

Frey and Ferren stood frozen, blood dripped from both of them, their eyes vacant as they stared ahead. Vic slapped Ferren a couple times. “Hear that?” He gripped him by the back of his neck and pulled him closer as he pointed at Frey. “Your boy is picking up another life sentence. All you gotta do is shut your fucking face and take a knee for him from now on.” 

Anger filled Ferren’s features and he spat blood and a tooth or two on the ground. “Yeah, I hear you.” His eyes roved over to Frey, malice swirling in his pupils as he added, “Loud and fucking clear.” 

“Shit!” Cotter exclaimed, turned away to eye the hall. “We got company.” 

The alarm sounded, signalling a lockdown, and anyone found outside would face the guard’s wrath. Vic was quick to state the obvious to Petyr and Cotter. “You can’t be here when the guards come.”

“We’re not done,” Petyr insisted, irritated that he could not seem to have a simple conversation one boss to another, without someone getting in the way of it. “We still need to find our rat.”

“Yes,” Vic agreed, his jaw clenching with the resentment they both shared in droves. “And I think I have an idea who it is.”

Petyr cut his eyes up to him, instantly wanting to interrogate. 

“Come on,” Cotter growled, gripping his arm as he did. “We need to go!” 

“Tomorrow in the yard,” Petyr hissed back at Vic, his whole body rigid and tight as Cotter pushed him out the door. 

The sounds of boots scuffing on the concrete, panicked voices barking and hissing to hide contraband through the sound of the alarm buzzing overhead, all preceded the whistle of the guards approaching. Petyr picked up his pace, taking the stairs two steps at a time. He was in his cell in no time, sitting back down with his deck of cards to look casual. Cotter plopped down in front of him to add to the effect. The loud rumble of a billy club dragging over the bars of their cell had Cotter biting the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. 

“If it isn’t my favorite convict,” Thorne purred through the bars. “In your cell like a good boy, I see.” 

Petyr wanted to tease back,  _ I knew you had a crush _ , but stifled the urge. Instead, he said nothing, refusing to give the guard reason to retaliate. On the plus side, his silence only seemed to piss him off more. 

Thorne fumed. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the death of a fellow prisoner, would you? Addam Marbrand. Head of the Aryan Brotherhood.”

“He died?” Petyr feigned ignorance, never looking up from his cards. “Just as well, don’t you think?” 

“No,” Thorne growled. “I don’t.”

“Prejudice is so outdated.” Petyr smirked. “One must keep up with the times.” 

“Interesting that he should meet his end in Vicky Greyjoy’s cell,” Thorne pointed out. “With his wife being black and all.” 

“And here I thought you never bothered to learn our names.” Petyr turned to give him his whole attention, cards still in hand as he asked, “Are you implying it was Vic that did it?” 

Thorne shook his head, anger and frustration sparking behind his eyes. “It _ looks  _ like it was another one in the Brotherhood.” 

“Well you know what they say about hate,” Petyr drawled, making a show of throwing out a card and dropping his hand. “It only breeds more hate.”

“Fuck!” Cotter growled and tossed his card on the table, as if entirely caught up in the game and not listening to every single word that passed. “You and those fucking aces.” 

Petyr chuckled, tearing his eyes away from Thorne’s to gather the cards up again. He was mid-shuffle when Thorne said, “Hey, Baelish?”

Petyr glanced up at him, forcing himself to stay casual and nonchalant. “Yeah?”

Pleased to have his attention, Thorne’s mouth curled into a disgusting smile. “When’s that pretty wife of yours coming to visit again?” 

Fury exploded inside Petyr, sending acid through his veins, pulling all his muscles tight to pounce. 

_ Steady _ , Cotter mouthed, his back turned on Thorne to keep him from seeing.

Thorne’s laugh bellowed high and loud as he crashed his nightstick to the bars and let it rumble across them as he strolled further down the hall. 

He was a dead man walking. 

It was becoming far too easy for Petyr to lose focus when all he had to occupy his time was a deck of cards, a couple hundred criminals too stupid not to get caught, and a growing hatred for everyone that wasn’t Sansa. Jace put him here, and a rat helped him--a rat that Vic knew. 

With Vic on the inside now, Frey as his puppet for the Aryan Brotherhood, and whatever protection Varys was lining up for him, Petyr was able to remain untouchable. Time for Thorne to realize that.  

 

 

 


	11. Aint No Sunshine

Dusk hit the stain glass of the Mausoleum, sending even softer golden rays of light through the extremely Catholic images. Both behind Sansa and on the wall opposite her were the names of the all the Lannisters--both greater and lesser--held within, etched in gold and accented with lions roaring. The tomb in the center housed Jaime and Cersei together, because Sansa couldn’t bear to separate even just their corpses. The tomb had been finished and given a straight edge to mimic a table. Carved in the top was a great lion’s head with a pistol to either side, Jaime’s name under one and Cersei’s under another, along with the dates of their lives. Benches had been set to either side for visiting and after a few weeks of doing just that, Sansa wanted to have them switched out for padded, more comfortable chairs. Petyr discouraged it, promising that while he respected her need to be with her friend, too much time spent with the dead would only tear at her heart more.

He was right and she knew it, so she kept the benches and stayed as long as her ass would allow, seeking Cersei’s comfort whenever she needed it the most--like now.   

Dry red wine sat bitter on Sansa’s tongue. She held it there for a moment, letting it saturate her taste buds before swallowing it back to speak her thoughts aloud. “Myrcella was such a good girl--never gave you this much trouble.” 

"Elenei thinks I'm stupid.” Words uttered in anger were often the most honest. “I blame the school for pushing college and advanced classes.” Because she needed someone else to blame. “She's writing me off just because I didn't go. Like I'm some dumb 50's housewife whose only purpose is to clean and breed. As if I even know where the Clorox is." 

Crossing her legs, Sansa leaned over to pour herself another glass and sighed. “You would have laughed at that one." 

Sitting back, Sansa hummed to the Mozart playing through the speakers. The next track on Cersei’s favorite music playlist began. Completely unfazed by the change from classical to Butthole Surfers, Sansa continued, "At least your children liked you. They may have had their issues-" A flash of the Lannister children had her remembering Joffrey's sadistic mouth spewing garbage, Tommen's meek cower, and Myrcella's hungry grin each time she saw Jon. "But they loved their mother.”

“Mine can’t stand me.” She took another sip of her wine and closed her eyes as she confessed, "I've fallen, Cers. I woke up one morning and lost my husband, and my children were soon to follow. And for the first time in a very long time, I’m not sure what tomorrow will bring."

Her self pity was exhausting even her now. Forcing herself to open her eyes and pull it together, she looked down at her feet. The black tips of her high heels caught the light and Sansa gave a soft chuckle. “You aren’t missing much in the way of fashion at least. Weitzman’s designs are all recycled and uninspired. Still, I picked up a couple of pairs.” She had come across red ones with gold accents and added them to the small section of her closet that held all the things she had accrued over the years that reminded her of her friend. 

“I hate that you're dead. You were reckless and vicious--drunk all the time, and-"  _ My shallow mind is just a sign of your game of life _ , piped obnoxiously in the background. "Honestly, your taste in music was god awful. But you were fun, and above the rules. And you actually understood me." Sansa took another sip and pursed her lips. “You wouldn't put up with my shit. You'd tell me to find my spine and go make someone my bitch. To take my place back at the top and remind the world what happens to everyone else who isn't me or mine during the climb."

Sansa sat up straighter with a renewed sense of conviction flowing through her. Downing the last drop of wine in her glass, warmth spread in her cheeks and she laughed, "If you saw me now, you'd parade into my closet and steal all the maxi dresses I've been hiding in and tell me to moisturize more." Cersei espoused that no amount of loneliness and depression warranted comfort clothes.  _ Our beauty is our strength _ , she used to say. 

"You  _ summoned  _ me?"

Elenei's vitriolic tone cut through Sansa's reminiscing, drawing her attention to the angry teenager looming in the doorway. Combat boots and a flannel shirt did nothing to make her cut off shorts or belly shirt look any more decent. Her wardrobe came off more as a cry for help than the rebellious statement she was going for.  

Elenei pointed up at the speakers in the ceiling, her face screwed in disgust. "What is this crap?" 

Refusing to rise to her daughter's bait, Sansa set her empty glass down on the marble tomb and rose from her chair. "We have business."

"I've made it clear how I feel. I don't know what more you want me to say," Elenei insisted. 

Sansa shook her head. "No,  _ sweetheart _ . Not you and I." It was time to toughen up and set their issues aside. "Our family has a business to run, and it's about time you took a more active role in it."

Elenei rolled her eyes. "I already know how to shoot and Auntie Aerie has shown me how to defend myself. I think I'm good, so let’s skip the mother-daughter bonding op."

"You miss Dad--I get it. And you blame me--fine. Right now, I can't care." All at once, her eyes narrowed and her voice sharpened. "I don't have the luxury of a temper tantrum, Elenei. While you're slamming doors and burning rubber in the driveway, I'm fighting to keep us from losing everything."

"Dad's gone," Elenei reminded her, as if she could forget. "Really, what else is there to lose?" 

Growing impatient, Sansa decided to show her daughter just how smart someone without an education had to be. "All the work Dad and I do--all the people we manage, do you think it all just goes away when our world turns upside down? No, Elenei. People still want money, goods, protection-” Hesitating only a fraction of a second before she added, “Pussy.” Elenei had grown up visiting their clubs in the daytime, it wasn’t as if their family’s investment in flesh was unknown to her. 

Still, the girl stood mouth agape at the frank way Sansa spoke. Though this reality was always around them, it was not something that Sansa and Petyr had ever openly discussed with their children. They had focused on weapons training, basic self-defense, and money--cutting percentages and stacking the odds. Petyr wanted to give his children a better life than he had at their age, and since Sansa was younger than Elenei when her parents were murdered, she was inclined to agree that they leave the seedier parts of their world until they were older. With all that had happened, they no longer had a choice in the matter. Whether Petyr approved or not, Sansa needed to keep her daughter close, even if that meant revealing everything. 

Forcing herself to carry on as if Elenei was any other person at her disposal, she continued, “And they will look elsewhere if we are out of the game. The minute their eyes are off us, we fall to nothing and become nobody. It’s the nobodies that build the body counts, and so help me, while I still have breath in my lungs, I will not rest until my family is protected. So you are going to put on that Michael Kors dress in the back of your closet, with the matching heels and find some foundation for your face.”

Elenei’s lips pursed, and though her eyes asked,  _ Anything else, Mommy Dearest? _ She thankfully, did not utter a word.

“We are dining with Vic’s wife tonight.” 

Petyr had asked Sansa to pay the woman a visit to feel her out, and now that Vic was in the pen with him, he was more insistent. He wanted information on Suge to bring Vic to heel if he ever got it in his head to take advantage of their current circumstances. It did not help that during their last conversation, Petyr said that Vic was worried about her--said she was off. For as much as Suge loved Vic, she had not visited him once since his incarceration. It was not as if she had children to protect either. Such absence from him was extremely strange for her. Something truly was amiss. 

“You are to be my shadow, Elenei. Do not speak without my approval. I can’t have you spouting off at the mouth and fucking things up.” Answering the obvious question Elenei had forming, Sansa explained, “You are an extra set of eyes. Watch everything, no matter how small. Learn.” 

Having Elenei at her side was also a show of family force, a reminder of how large the Baelish clan was--how barren and small the Greyjoys were. It would do Suge good to behave and give up whatever info she had. 

The sun had just gone down when Suge’s butler welcomed Sansa, Elenei, and Jon. He extended his arm to take their coats, and Sansa nodded her approval for them all to hand them over. It was not as if they had been carrying their guns in their pockets anyway. Sansa stepped forward, pushing Elenei back behind her as she followed the butler into Suge’s great room. Tension rippled off of Jon and she knew he wanted to go first and shield her from any danger they may have walked into. It would not do, however. Hiding behind him was as bad as brandishing her weapon openly or wearing kevlar. Precautions advertised fear and fear was for the weak. 

Sansa lifted her chin and strode forward, determined to erase any doubts as to her strength or standing in this city. Suge rose from the oversized red plush lounge chair she had been in, eyeing them all. “Sansa,” she acknowledged, her voice hollow and fatigued. Long silver hair draped down over her shoulders, somehow stringier than normal as it blended in with the white fur coat she wore. It was strange she would wear such a heavy coat inside. Instead of making her dark skin pop with the contrast, she looked paler than Sansa had seen her last. Was she ill?

Sansa certainly had not felt her healthiest in Petyr’s absence either.  

“Suge,” she replied in greeting, understanding all too well how easily life left one when torn from their lover. She gestured behind her as she introduced her family, “Elenei, my daughter. And you know my cousin.” 

“Yes. Jon Snow.” Suge tilted her head toward him. “Your cousin  _ and  _ consigliere.” She gave Sansa a wink before her lips spread into a bitter smile, lines forming to either corner of her mouth with the strain of such a forced gesture. “Let’s not leave that out.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sansa replied. If the woman wanted to drop all pretense then it only made her job easier. Suddenly, she wished she had brought Varys after all. Sansa had originally opted for subtly when she decided to leave ‘The Right Hand of Baelish’ at home, unsure of where Suge’s head was at. Sansa took Jon because blood made a larger statement.

“So glad we can cut the shit and be real,” Suge said as she turned and wiggled her tattooed fingers over her shoulder for them to follow. Though there was a strong likelihood that she had become the enemy, Elenei could still stand to learn something from her. “What business do you have with me while my Vic’s in the can?” 

“Nothing aside from the obvious.” Sansa motioned for Jon and Elenei to follow as they walked into the dining room. It was garish to say the least with an oversized picture of Jesus crying gold tears over a white marble fireplace. Sansa tried not to gawk as she said, “I’ve vetted my camp for a rat. How about you?”

Suge gave a sick chuckle as she sat down. “If you’re askin’ if I put the fear of god into our guys, then yea you could say that.” 

Her butler set plates of salmon “Bulgogi” with bok choy and mushrooms before them. Sansa silently prayed Elenei would refrain from commenting on the meal. She had a hatred for ‘fungus’ and was spoiled enough being a Baelish that she had no qualms vocalizing it. To Sansa’s surprise, Elenei had chosen to follow orders tonight and keep her opinions to herself.

Sansa’s hand on Elenei’s thigh warned her not to eat until Suge did. Elenei gave her a sidelong glance, silently asking if she was serious. The way Sansa leaned back in her seat, making no motion towards her plate, promised she was. 

“Oh for Jesus-sake,” Suge groaned before making a quick sign of the cross over her chest and cramming a forkful of food in her mouth. She chewed the bite a couple of times and swallowed. “There, see?” 

Jon leaned over his plate, the first to eat. The queasy look on Suge’s face did not escape Sansa’s notice and she dug her fingers into Elenei’s leg to keep her from touching the food. The food might not have been fatal in small doses, though that didn’t mean the coast was clear. For appearances, Sansa took a small bite of salmon--a corner untouched by sauce or seasoning. 

“If neither of our men talked,” Sansa picked up the conversation where they had left off, watching Suge’s butler pour wine in her glass. “You have any ideas who did?” 

Though Suge’s man filled her glass, she reached for water and took a small sip before she started playing with a large gold chain around her neck. She knew something she wasn’t sharing. “No.”

This was not the loud and proud woman who once held Victarion Greyjoy by knife point. Suge was a larger than life type, fearless and a talker. Single syllable answers were out of character. The slight furrow of Jon’s brow said he was thinking a similar train of thought. 

Sansa brought her glass to her lips. “That’s too bad.” Swallowing the liquid back, mentally criticising the quality, Sansa added, “Finding the informant is the quickest way to get our husbands home.” 

Suge averted her gaze, staring down at the food she’d yet to touch since she took her first frustrated bite. Making a show of playing with her ring, Sansa glanced to either side of her before leaning in to say, “Assuming that’s what  _ you  _ want, anyway.”

Suge’s head snapped back to pin her with a glare. Sansa bit the inside of her cheek to keep from showing just how much pleasure such venom brought her. Elenei shifted uncomfortably in her seat and swallowed back any exclamation she might have let slip in other circumstances. “What are you playing at, Baelish?”

In addition to being a hothead, Victarion was also an extremely jealous man. That particular quality in people often tore couples apart, and was therefore perfect for weaponizing. 

A pang of sadness chilled Sansa’s insides as she considered Petyr’s jealous nature. It was was not a weakness in their marriage, but instead a founding principle. Sansa always felt cared for in that she never need worry about a wandering eye. Likewise, her embracing such a tight hold gave Petyr the acceptance he would only ever have with her.  

“It’s not unheard of for women to embrace the independence gained in their husband’s absence,” Sansa goaded. If she could rile her enough, perhaps she would let whatever secrets she was keeping slip.

Jon set his fork down and exhaled in warning. He never favored provocation. Elenei turned her head to observe him, picking up on the silent disagreement between Sansa and Uncle Jon. 

“You’re awfully quick to march your ass over here and pick up where your husband left off,” Suge hissed, narrowing her eyes. “Maybe you got things backwards. You hardly look heartbroken.” 

Sansa refused to feel bad for the very minimal amount of self-care she was able to drag herself through, just because Suge had let herself go so severely. Glancing down at Suge’s full plate of food, completely untouched but for the cursory bite, Sansa fired back. “Because I’m not starving myself in my sorrow?” 

A rough male voice interrupted, “What am I missing?” 

Sansa’s gaze shot to the entrance to see none other than Euron Greyjoy, one of Vic’s brothers. “Euron,” Sansa acknowledged. “Last I heard, you were overseas.” 

A predatory grin grew. “On leave for being such a good boy.”

All the anger in Suge’s face washed away, leaving her looking numb to the world around her. Sansa was almost tempted to reach over and shake her to see if any life would return to her. 

Euron stalked toward them, staying to Suge’s side of the table. “That and, to help out on my brother’s behalf.” His hand dragged over the back of her chain and down to her shoulder. “Take care of his wife.” 

Sansa stared into Suge’s eyes, looking for any spark of lust, even just an ember of interest. The nauseated look she had moments before had returned to her, though she was too good to express it. Instead, she reached for her glass of water and took another small sip to swallow down whatever she was feeling. 

“I know Snow,” Euron said before flicking his gaze over to Elenei. “But I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you.” 

“Elenei,” she answered, her voice small and uncertain. “My name is Elenei.” 

“She’s my daughter,” Sansa said, using their relationship to protect her. 

Euron shifted his weight, angling his groin out further as he purred, “Yes, I can see the resemblance.” 

Sansa bit her tongue to keep from sneering and fought back a shudder. She hated exposing Elenei to filth like this, but it was a reality they couldn't escape. If not Euron, then it would just be someone else equally unpleasant eventually. Best her daughter steel herself to it now. 

Instead of cringing over such attention, the corner of Elenei’s mouth lifted in a small sideways grin. Sansa tensed, as did Jon beside her. The intimate way in which Euron held Suge, suggested they were fucking behind Vic’s back. The complete lack of interest she had in the way he eyeball-fucked Elenei right in front of her, showed they weren’t. 

Euron leaned over Suge’s shoulder and spoke to Elenei as if she were the only person in the room. “Mummy and Daddy should let you out to play more often.” 

Her daughter’s cheeks reddened into an undeniable blush. To be that innocent again. Sansa fingered the blade she concealed under the belt of her dress and growled, “She’s sixteen--keep your dick in your pants.”

“Mum!” Elenei screeched. 

Suge bowed her head and averted her gaze, gently pulling from Euron’s grasp. If he noticed, he made no scene about it, instead laughing freely at Sansa’s protectiveness and Elenei’s mortification. 

“Not to worry.” Euron held his hands up in a claim of innocence. “I was only admiring a beautiful flower in bloom--not looking to  _ pluck  _ it.” 

Tempted to cut out his tongue, Sansa gripped Jon’s arm to keep him from posturing.  Sansa ignored her daughter practically crawling under the table to soothe her hormones and hide. Suge’s voice interrupted them all, her hand coming to rest in her lap as she asked, “You got any other business you need to discuss?” 

Why did Sansa get the distinct impression that Suge was trying to rush her out all of a sudden?

“Ah yes, business,” Euron interjected, letting his hand find her shoulder again. “You’re welcome.” 

“Excuse me?” Sansa asked. 

He grinned with glee as he confessed, “I took care of Swyft!” 

“Took care of?” Elenei asked, finding her voice again. 

His eyes snapped to hers, “Why yes, Love. I slit his throat like this.” He flipped a blade out and cut the air in front of his throat, letting his eyes bug and his tongue flop out of his mouth. “For running his mouth on my brother--and your Daddy.” 

Sansa looked to Suge to see whether or not she bought this crap. Suge’s jaw clenched and her eyes closed in a slow blink. Rather than terrified or even just a little unnerved, Elenei inhaled and shifted in her seat, warmth finding her cheeks again. “That was-”

“Stupid,” Sansa cut Elenei off from uttering whatever idiotic idolizing she was about to slip. 

Euron’s attention snapped back to her. “He took the stand. He got what he deserved.” 

“Exactly. He took the stand.” Sansa spelled it out for him and her inexperienced daughter. “There’s a lot of attention on him now. Real vengeance would have been to let years go by, allowing a false sense of security and then gut him in his garage.”

A faint smile of agreement grew on Suge’s lips. “My Vic got the brains in the family.”

Euron’s fingertips trailed down her arm and Sansa wondered for a moment if that was why she wore a coat inside, to avoid his touch. “Let’s not get salty now, Suge,” he chided. “I miss Vic too.” 

Moving his hand back up, he stroked her hair a couple of times before saying, “That’s why I’ve come to help look after you, Sugey-Baby.” 

The nickname had Sansa puckering her mouth in an effort to get the obnoxiously sweet taste out of it. For however much it upset Sansa, Suge only took another sip of her water and maintained her placid expression. 

Slowly, she turned her head. A brief shimmer of life sparkled in her irises as she locked eyes with Sansa and said, “Thank you, Eury.” 

Euron nudged her over with his hip and perched on the arm of her chair as he played with a strand of her hair. Sansa blinked to make sure she was seeing things correctly. Suge had never been one to tolerate such disrespect. “Of course--that’s what family’s for.” He licked his lips as he eyed Elenei again and said, “I take care of what’s mine.” 

Sansa heard her light gasp beside her and grit her teeth. Jon’s elbow in her side told her to end it now, cut their visit short and save Elenei any further exposure to the slimeball across the table. Clearing her throat, Sansa said, “We came for a rat. Looks we’re still on the hunt.” 

Euron’s smile turned to a frown as he agreed, “Unfortunately.” 

Suge lifted her chin as if to say something, though her lips never parted, leaving Sansa to silently wonder just exactly what was happening in the Greyjoy home. 

“Let us know if you find anything,” Euron said far too congenially. 

Sansa wasted no time rising from her chair, Jon soon to follow and Elenei eventually after that. They were hardly out the door before Sansa rounded on Elenei. “Stay away from him.” 

She rolled her eyes and scoffed back at her. “Mother, please.”

_ Mother? _

Since when was she  _ ‘Mother’ _ ?

Sansa grabbed her arm and held her close. “He’s no good, Elenei,” she warned. “Trust me, he’s low grade at best.” 

“Says the woman who sells  _ pussy  _ for a living.” Elenei wrenched free from her and stomped off toward the car.

Her words cracked hard across Sansa’s face and she almost reached for her cheek to soothe the sting. Jon’s hands rose in her periphery and she covered them with her own. “No, Jon. Don’t.” Whatever he had to say, she was too tired to know it. “Let her think she knows everything.” 

  
  



	12. Hold the Line

Petyr lowered his voice to ask, “Are you wearing them?” 

Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. “Yes.”

“Show me,” he demanded, desperation forcing him to disregard their less than private surroundings.

Sansa tugged the shoulder of her dress to the side, allowing him to see the canary yellow bra strap beneath. Her panties matched--even if she didn’t show him, he knew they did. Petyr exhaled through his nostrils, letting his eyes flutter shut from the pleasure of her obedience and the memory of just how that particular set hugged and lifted her curves. 

The distance in their relationship was taking a serious toll. Judging by the hollow of her cheeks, it had been on her as well. Calling from Karhold to tell her what undergarments to wear each day had helped keep their connection and his sanity.

“I want to suck your pussy right through that lace.” There was no secret code or hidden message, only pure unadulterated  _ want _ . 

“It’s yours.” Her ready response, and the sultry sound of her voice made his dick twitch. “Do whatever you want with it.”

Clenching his teeth he asked, “Have you been taking care of my property while I’ve been away?”

Sansa leaned forward, resting her tits on the table, as she had the visit before--and the one before that. Her voice was low and husky as she admitted, “I pet it at least once a day for you.”

“What do you think about when you do?” He yearned to watch her fingers dance between her folds, contorting her face into almost painful expressions of bliss. In the outside world, such a sight was only a couple clicks away. 

“You--palming my tits, running your thumbs back and forth over them.” She licked her lips. “My mouth on your cock, swallowing it down my throat.” Her eyes closed. “Your tongue tapping my clit, your fingers curled deep inside me, reaching all the places I can't. Until the rest of the world disappears.” A soft moan escaped her lips. 

Petyr’s heart beat so loudly that he wondered if it would spring from his chest and splat against the glass in a savage attempt to reach her. Clenching a fist under the table to will his erection down, Petyr heaved a heavy sigh. “We need to fuck.” 

“Yes, please.”

The sound of her whimper through the phone sent another jolt of excitement through him. The strain was becoming painful and only getting worse at the thought of another empty shower jerk. He pursed his lips and clenched a fist on the counter. “We have to stop.”

Sansa sat back, the fire in her eyes banking until only the faintest glimmer remained. His woman could go from hot and ready to cool and controlled within the bat of a lash and it only made him want to fuck her longer and harder for it. 

Running his tongue over the back of his teeth, he forced himself to forgive her. It was not Sansa’s fault that he was going insane without her at his fingertips.

“Yes,” she agreed, her voice much more composed than it was before. She lifted her chin with a new resolve as she suggested, “Perhaps we should make the most of this time apart.”

His head snapped up at that. ‘ _ Make the most of their time apart? _ “Explain.” 

Her lips thinned, taking issue with the sharpness of his tone. 

“Please,” he appealed, trying to take the edge out of his request. 

Glancing away, she ducked her head, avoiding his eyes. "I'm only saying," Sansa paused to adjust her skirt, pulling it lower toward her knees. Things were bad if she was fidgeting--covering herself from him. Petyr reminded himself to breathe as she spoke. "That while we can't be together, rather than wallowing around in an empty bed, I might do something with my time."

I, not we. 

At least she did not bother to act as if her suggestion was a mutually beneficial one. He was trapped, but she was not.

"Do something with your time?" He repeated. His shock quickly turned bitter as he spat, "Something like maybe work on getting me out of here? Or start salsa lessons?"

Rather than blanch at his anger, or reward him with even the slightest of winces, Sansa stayed the course. "Funny you should mention lessons."

Petyr held his tongue and raised a brow at her. Thankfully she did not dottle in her explanation. "I have decided to go back to school."

He blinked at her, waiting for her to crack a smile. Surely, she was jesting. 

When her deadpan expression remained unchanged, his did. A small disbelieving grin preceded a chuckle. "This is why you're my wife." He shook his finger at her, ignoring the indignant glare she sent him. "Beautiful-" He would leave out ruthless while they had ears listening, "and a sense of humor. You're the only one who could ever pull one over on me." 

"I'm serious," she insisted, her voice hard with loathing for the patronizing he spread thick.

Seeing how it ate at her, he held his smirk. “You can't be.”

Sansa held her hand out in front of her, making a show of playing with her wedding band as she did. “Do you know why our marriage works, Petyr?”

Hoping a compliment or two might coax her to think of him more in her pursuits, he explained, “Because you have legs for days and a marvelous mind. And because I’d do anything to keep you for myself.”

She smirked at that, and straightened in her chair to puff her chest out more for him. “Yes, you would. And yes, I do.”

_ There, it’s settled then,  _ he thought. 

“Though, that was not what I was getting at,” she added. Her gaze lifted to his, the sparkle of her ring catching the light in his periphery. “It’s because no matter what we’ve been through, we have always supported each other.”

A low growl crawled up the back of his throat and it was no small feat to stifle it. Petyr took two controlled breathes before he was able to ask, “And while I’m supporting this new interest of yours, what about me? Have you considered me at all, or have you written yourself off? Practically a widow?” 

Her jaw clenched and he knew he was getting under her skin. Unfortunately, two could play that game, and she proved it by saying, “I do look great in black.”

“Fuck you,” he spat, suddenly not caring about the calm exterior he was to maintain for the recordings. Couples fought, and as long as they weren’t giving up names or evidence, then who cared if he was pissed at her?

Venom poured from her  _ Fresh From The Fray  _ lips as she repeated, “Yes, please.”

“If only,” he warned. Sex did not fix every argument, though it did definitely soften things, make them more workable. Under these conditions, they had no release, only the opportunity for more pain and anger. “Am I to rot here while you get yourself a degree in--what again?” He tried to think of the most insulting majors for a woman like Sansa. “Interior design? Liberal Arts?”

“You are such an asshole,” she growled back. 

Good. Let her get riled. Let her care. 

Petyr watched her cross and uncross her legs, and he wanted to pin them down and climb between them. She would think of him then. 

Sansa drew a deep breath before saying, “If you must know--though, it’s clear you don’t care--Business.” 

It was a right hook to the gut. 

No sound came from his mouth when he opened it at first and he had to wet his lips and swallow before he could speak. “Apparently, my tutelage isn’t enough for you. Sharing everything I know with you hasn’t been sufficient.” 

“I’m not saying that.” 

“Yes, you are.”

“You don’t understand.”

He thinned his lips, unwilling to say more. Eyeing the hook on the wall beside him, he actually entertained the idea of hanging up. If he thought the world wouldn’t swallow him up the moment she left his presence, he might have. 

Sansa must have followed his gaze because she shook her head and her tone changed. “No, Petyr don’t. I haven’t forgotten about you. Varys and I are still working on your appeal.” She tucked some hair behind her ear as she leaned in. “You are still my number one priority.” 

His eyes narrowed back at her, telling her,  _ I used to believe that _ .

Her eyes softened, telling him,  _ I mean it. _

He looked away, denying her his attention, and himself the fantasy of fisting her hair and owning her body again. With a thick layer of glass separating them, unable to run his fingers over her soft skin, it felt impossible to make her forget about anything else but him. 

“These things take time,” she said, and it sounded like an excuse. Until, her voice broke on a confession, “And there’s just so much of it without you, that it’s  _ stifling _ .”

His eyes found hers again, for the first time noticing the darkness beneath them, the creases at the edges. She looked tired. And sore. Not physically--but as though she had been wounded deep inside and it was not healing, slowly sapping her of life. He had noticed the weight loss when she came in, but he had been clouded by lust at the time. Her skin was even paler than usual and he assumed she was spending a lot of time inside. She always went to the mausoleum when she was upset and could easily waste entire days drinking and sitting with her friend--usually when the children upset her. Without him there to drag her back to the land of the living, he could only assume her loneliness was eating her up--her affinity for the dead her only comfort.

Perhaps school was not the worst thing in the world, if it kept her from wasting away in his absence. What good was fighting to be released, if his wife was gone when he got out?

“I take it that the children are still upset with you.”

“Untrue,” she denied, clearly not appreciating her transparency or his interest.

Sansa did not lie--not to him. She did, however, omit details at times. He did as well, and it was a distinction that often lead to the best reconciliations. 

“Durran has forgiven you?”

A small smile curled over her lips. “We went to Ducati together this weekend.”

He chuckled. “Bribery?”

She gave him an impish grin. “Is it wrong for a mother to share in her son’s interests?”

She looked happy again, and he hesitated to ask, “And Elenei?”

Her features darkened as she chose her words carefully, attempting to paint a prettier picture. “Is a teenager. Her attitude is to be expected.”

Petyr sighed. Her deflection was incriminating and it was time to call her on it. “You’ve been visiting your friend.”

Quick to change the subject, Sansa retorted, “That’s not the only friend I’ve been visiting.”

“Oh?” He asked, allowing her to deflect again, because it had to do with business. He knew she was referring to Suge.

“Unfortunately, our visit was short-lived.” Sansa stared back at him meaningfully as she said, “She already had company.”

Who would be visiting Suge Greyjoy? A family associate? Or perhaps, family. Word had been out a few months back that Vic’s brother Euron was back in town, though Petyr had been picked up my Mel before he could confirm in person. Guessing, he said, “It makes sense, without Vic, she might spend more time with family.”

Making sure she was crystal clear, Sansa said, “Yes, inlaws can be very helpful at times.”

Euron. The brother that joined the navy rather than stand by Vic’s side and defend the family against whatever feud they faced at the time. There were so many. One learned that who was a dear friend one year, would become a mortal enemy the next, only to find favor again provided proper reparations were paid. 

“Provided they aren’t adversarial,” Sansa chirped. “My poor friend just wasn’t herself after her brother-in-law showed up.”

And why would that be? Guilty conscience for fucking around on Vic? “I’ve heard often of brother’s pining for their brother’s wives. Perhaps there was some unresolved tension there?” 

Sansa shook her head. “I would have thought so too, except that he didn’t seem to discriminate who received his attention.”

Rage fired through him and he clenched his teeth as he asked, “Sansa?” 

“Not me,” she was quick to soothe. 

There was something behind her eyes that told him not to settle so easily. A quick glance at the clock told him to save it for another time. 

“And, my friend seems quite loyal to her husband, anyway,” Sansa added to let him know that she did not believe Suge was stepping out with Euron. 

Then why would she act differently? The woman was fierce and scared of no one. It was difficult to think of what would make her behave any differently in his company than on her own. Petyr would wonder if she had been the rat, except that Sansa specifically said she thought she was loyal. Perhaps Euron was the rat--or at least knew who he was. It was a strange thought considering how out of their life Euron had been until only recently. What reason could he possibly have for such a power play?

Knowing they had spent too long on the subject, Petyr signalled for them to stop. “Everyone has an off day, maybe her mood will improve when you visit her again.” He was telling Sansa to keep an eye on her. 

“Maybe,” Sansa agreed, catching his meaning. 

“FIVE MORE MINUTES!” One of the guards shouted his warning.

Sadness flashed across Sansa’s eyes, deepening the blue of her irises. They only ever grew that color when she was staving off tears, and Petyr mused that it was the build up of those tears that turned them that shade. It was beautiful, and he loathed to see it. 

“I want a conjugal visit,” he said, because he did, and he wanted to take away her tears. 

Sansa smiled at him and sniffed. “As nice as it is, your dick doesn’t fix everything.”

Petyr’s eyes widened, his eyebrows shooting up as he asked in mock disbelief, “ _ Nice _ ?” 

She laughed then and turned her head, the slightest tinge of red coloring her cheeks. Biting her bottom lip, Petyr’s hips lifted in his chair, his ‘nice’ erection straining to comfort her. “Tell me about school.”

“Because that went so well the first time,” she retorted, with absolutely no fight left in her words, only mild amusement. 

Her dimples were killing him. “I’ve had time to think about it. Tell me about school so I can support you.” Especially now that he knew she had visited Suge as promised--she wasn’t forgetting him. 

“It’s stupid.” 

“Tell me.”

Sansa sighed and dropped her hand in her lap, her eyes rolling as she said, “Elenei thinks I’m dumb.”

Petyr paused, waiting to hear more. When he didn’t, he said, “Children live to make us feel inadequate. That doesn’t mean we are.”

“Petyr.” Her eyes fluttered shut. 

His name on her lips had his jaw clenching. Slowly, her eyes opened, and she gave a wry smile. “You always know just what to say. How to make me feel good, even when you’re disappointing.”

He didn’t have to ask how he was disappointing. He had promised to support her, though hearing that his extremely capable wife was being bullied by their sixteen year old had him regretting it. His princess needed a swift kick in the ass, and his wife needed to come in his arms. “I am proud of you for bettering yourself--despite the reasoning behind it.”

“Being preoccupied with school will benefit us in the long run,” Sansa explained, now opening up. “I’m being watched closely. Everyone’s waiting for me to step into your shoes-” She glanced up at the camera in the wall. “With our businesses. Me taking things in a different direction will throw all this negative press off of us.”

Petyr nodded. She was right. Elenei was still young and naive, had no idea what her mother was capable of. In time she would learn. He just hoped she did not tear her mother down in the meantime--her being the only one with the power to do so. 

“Are you satisfied with the level of support I’ve provided?” He asked, without a trace of sarcasm. 

She smiled. “Yes.”

“Excellent. Now, how about that conjugal?” He sucked his teeth and grinned. 

She laughed and leaned back in her chair. “God, Petyr.”

They had been together for twenty years and she looked as shy as if he were her first ever crush. The air between them was electric, zapping through the glass defiantly. Loving her took years off his life, and damn if he didn’t miss her to the point of pain. Everything about her--the way she folded her newspaper to read it over breakfast, how everyone’s eyes roved to her when she entered a room. Her bloodthirsty business sense and the way she would curl into him whenever she had so much as a belly ache.

Fingering his own wedding band now, Petyr bowed his head as he spoke into the phone. “They say if a wife dies before her husband, he’s soon to follow. Broken heart, and all that. Whereas conversely, when a husband dies first, the woman tends to live much longer, still able to find some happiness without him.”

“Petyr-”

He held his hand up to cut her off. He needed her and he needed her to know it. “It made sense in the old days when people didn’t marry for love--women finally had the opportunity to enjoy life without oppressive arrangements dictating their lives for them.”

Sansa stared back at him, silently asking when he would let her speak. Not yet. He rubbed his goatee and continued, “It’s not the old days, but it’s still true. Wives keep themselves content without their husbands much longer than a husband can be without his wife.” 

“I never said I was content without you,” Sansa argued. 

He knew she wasn’t. That, however, was not the point. This was about what was bearable and what simply, was not. His voice lowered, his eyes locking with hers as he whispered, “I enjoy fucking you--you’re tight and fit and... _ creative _ .”

She swallowed and he knew his confession was affecting her. 

“You’re mine, Sansa. A part of me.” She shivered and he almost faltered, but managed to keep speaking. “Any red blooded man with a pulse would cut a finger off for a conjugal with you to fuck your brains out, but Sansa I need more. I need to feel you in my arms again and burrow myself deep inside you where everything is just as it should be, and nothing else matters. Let me fill your emptiness and give us both a break from loneliness.”

Her chest heaved at his words, her breathing audible. 

“I’m not myself without you,” he continued, because he knew he was getting somewhere. She was breaking because she wasn’t the same without him either. Their family was meant to be run together. “I don’t care if you go to school or not, I want you happy and I want back inside you. Tell me you want that too.” 

“TIME’S UP!” The guard called aloud before the loud buzzer sounded. 

Sansa stood and Petyr felt his heart squeeze in his chest. No way could she leave without giving him an answer. “Sansa?”

Slowly, she bent over the chair, and hovered in front of the window. “Set it up and I’ll be there.” She wet her lips. “For you, I’ll always be there.”

Relief and excitement crashed into him and left him feeling exultant as he said, “Wear the red lace to your next meeting with Bronzy’s boys.” Juggles always liked leering at Sansa, and it pleased Petyr to have more of an idea of what was under her skirt than he did--even though he was miles away and behind bars.

“Alright,” she agreed. 

“Move along, Offender!” 

It was Thorne. Petyr turned his head to glower at him, but whipped back around as soon as he saw Sansa being shuffled off. The bastards that escorted her and the other visitors were fortunate they weren't laying a hand on her as they did. Petyr dropped the phone, not bothering to hang it up and let Thorne lead him out of the visiting area.

“Trouble in paradise?” Thorne goaded. 

Petyr held his tongue and trained his eyes ahead, refusing to give the man anything to feed on. While he doubted Thorne had the opportunity to listen to the entirety of Sansa’s visit, Petyr was certain he would be skipping back to pop some popcorn and listen to whatever he missed just as soon as he could. 

Fine. Let him. 

A small smirk pulled to one side of his mouth as he considered Thorne’s fruitless endeavors. There was nothing to learn from those recordings, other than that they were a couple with a healthy libido suffering the strain of separation, just like any other couple kept apart by the courts. 

Thorne nudge him forward. “Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, offender! You’re in for a world of pain at lights out.” 

Petyr forced his smirk to stay out of spite. However, he allowed a small question in his eye. 

“Oh, you don’t know?” Thorne teased. “Fancy that, Littlefinger doesn’t know something.” 

Biting the inside of his cheek, Petyr kept himself from asking. 

Downright giddy with himself, Thorne was all too happy to explain, “Top Dog’s finished his time in the hole. Time for whatever you think you built to crumble.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to GreedIsGreen for betaing this installment. And to everyone who insisted on a jail fic, for allowing me to play in this universe a little longer. 
> 
> [Songbirds & Stool Pigeons Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLJ5nFFjsOszevIYm_Zk61r9AUNSjWBUuy)


End file.
